


Dead Pasts and Dread Futures

by youworeblue



Series: Bloodied and Broken [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Iron Bull/Dorian, Blood Magic, Despair, Developing Friendships, Empathy, Everyone Needs A Hug, Female Character of Color, Fix It Fic, Hope, Implied cullen/lavellan - Freeform, Just you wait - Freeform, Male-Female Friendship, Or do you, Redemption, Resurrection, Suicide, TW: Suicide, This might be a morality play about empathy, Time Travel, and counting, and love wins, angry depressed inquisitor, bleeding heart Inquisitor is bloody and broken, but hope is a choice, empathy is the enemy of free will, lots of moralizing, lots of politics, there are 130 chapters, who knows - Freeform, yes Sera shows up, you always have a choice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 133
Words: 461,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26982769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youworeblue/pseuds/youworeblue
Summary: Shadows fall, and hope has fled. Steel your heart; the dawn will comeThe Inquisitor's heart broke when her family of friends scattered to the winds in the wake of the Exalted Council. She was emptied of hope as Solas's power and reach grew.  Left with a dead past and only a dread future to look forward to, Ixchel Lavellan lay down and chose not to wake up.As the Veil began to unravel and the fabric of reality tore apart at the seams, a desperate ally sacrificed everything to give her a second chance.And Ixchel will never forgive him.--time travel/fix it fic.tw: suicide, first chapter. She gets better. But themes of suicidal depression throughoutnsfw chapters marked: ** (only five thus far)Current progress: Ch 120 - Finished Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts; Before the Dawn; Under Her Skin, Here Lies the Abyss. Starting Jaws of Hakkon and Save Clan Lavellan. To come: SO MUCH. @dreadfutures on tumblr for extra content
Relationships: DEEP INTERPERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS, Female Inquisitor/Solas, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fenris/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Fenris/Lavellan (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke, Lavellan & Solas, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Bloodied and Broken [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969189
Comments: 881
Kudos: 321





	1. The Herald's Rest

**Author's Note:**

> This is a stand-alone "Inquisitor gets a second chance" fic, but there is a "prequel" with snippets of the Inquisitor's first go around at saving the world, when she was a teenage newbie. I do try to keep general lore-related headcanons and predictions for DA4 pretty light, but a few theories about spirits, elves, and the Evanuris are referenced.
> 
> If you want to know what you're in for here, commenters have described it as a cathartic emotional journey dealing with the highs and lows of some of the worst depression, the pressure of moral responsibilities, and expectations in interpersonal relationships. 
> 
> There are heavy and depressing themes in this story generally, which are drawn from my own experiences. Writing this has certainly been cathartic for me as I work a lot of personal stuff out. It's been really wonderful to find so many of you have felt the same.
> 
> Other notes:
> 
> Where possible, I use Elvish from the game script verbatim. If you're a scholar and have actually been using Project Elvhen @FenxShiral to learn more sensible Elvish grammar...that is why some of the Elvish is grammatically awkward. The other reason is probably because even though I've tried to use Project Elvhen, I'm dumb about languages, and that is why some of the rest of the Elvish is grammatically awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/13/20

Ixchel watched as dawn broke across the Frostbacks through the distant stained glass windows of her Skyhold bedroom, and once again she was haunted by the voices of her Inquisition:

_The night is long,_  
_and the path is dark._  
_Look to the sky,_  
_for one day soon_  
_the dawn will come._

For so many of those singers, dawn never came. They had fallen to Corypheus, and darkspawn, and demons. They had fallen to the Qun. So many of those voices had fallen quiet, and now they only sung in her haunted memories.

She thought it was a little funny that even as the sky brightened with the rising sun, her room was growing dark. Her chest was tight, and her heart ached in her ribs. She could barely feel her fingers as they rested on her breast; her remaining hand was numb, and now she was losing sensation up to the elbow.

The stained glass windows seemed further away now, even as darkness crept across her vision. The tree of Mythal as it sprawled across the artisanal panes glowed in the golden fire of morning, and a six-eyed shadow stalked the perimeter of the room where its light did not reach.

She did not move her eyes from the horizon, caught between a dead past and a dead future.

_Bare your blade,_  
_and raise it high._  
_Stand your ground;_  
_the dawn will come._

She could no longer hear Dorian’s screams from the crystal he had given her, and she couldn’t tell if it were the poison’s doing or if he had finally accepted that she would not respond again. Like everything else, it didn’t matter. There was no one to hear his calls for help. There was no one to come to check upon her now.

_Shadows fall,_  
_and hope has fled;_  
_steel your heart._  
_The dawn will come._

Tears slipped down the sides of her face and into her hair.

Death claimed the Inquisitor just as the morning light reached the foot of her bed.


	2. Out of a Dread Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicide again
> 
> 10/13/20

Dorian Pavus had been in a protracted war with the world since the day he was born. His mother had told him as much for as long as he could recall her speaking to him. He had left the womb wailing at the immense indignity of birth; he had rejected the authority of his father; he had railed against the expectations of his tutors; he had taken to deviant sexual preferences; he had helped defy a would-be god; he had spent the better part of another decade in a cold war with his countrymen over the heart and soul of Tevinter itself.

And through it all, there had been a war battled out inside his own brain: a war against loneliness, against hopelessness, against defeatism, against exhaustion.

As a veteran of this war, he had known exactly what Ixchel had planned even before she put it in motion.

And still he was too late.

-:-:-:-:-

It was a testament to the Inquisitor’s unifying spirit that Divine Victoria reached across the sea and called him to her shore, even as the Veil trembled and the sky threatened to fall. It was a testament to Vivienne’s talents that the Inquisitor’s body had lain in state, without decay, for so many months, awaiting an appropriate ceremony in the presence of all her friends. Those who remained, at least.

And it was a testament to the cruel humor of fate that Fen’Harel chose that moment bring his plan to fruition.

Divine Victoria, the Chantry, and the remaining force of the Inquisition had been standing by for months, knowing that this moment would find them soon enough. The eluvians they had watched so carefully in secret, the agents they had identified and followed, the ancient and sacred spaces they had located, had given that away. And even though they had united most of Thedas in the effort to find Fen’Harel or thwart his plans, they had always known they were one step behind the Dread Wolf.

So when all the mages in the room felt their connection to the Fade snap taught, and when every one who had gathered to mourn felt the earth quake, and when they saw the sky tear apart again in one fiery cataclysm, they mobilized without hesitation. They flooded out to meet the oncoming apocalypse, and death itself, with teeth bared and swords raised high.

And in the commotion, the confusion, the chaos, Dorian was left to his own devices.

-:-:-:-:-

Dorian’s years spent defying fate and expectation had left him with a keen mind. He couldn’t _help_ but come up with outlandish plans and far-fetched alternatives for every situation. There was always a part of his brain engineering breaks from reality, and thus he had not _intended_ to form this plan—and yet here he stood, as the world ended, as the Fade surged around him, and he knew what he had to do.

Blood spilled freely at the end of the world, and power beyond imagining was free to those who sought it. It drove mages mad the world over, and perhaps that explained what Dorian did with that power.

Dorian’s war was with reality itself, and he was about to win.

The Inquisitor opened her eyes to the end of the world, and her mouth opened to scream as all newly-living things did, and as all living things did in the face of the end of the world.

Dorian did not even once entertain the idea that the scream was a manifestation of his own Terror, or Rage, or Despair. He could not give the thought life—not when he was forcing life down the Inquisitor’s dead throat the way he was.

“Dorian!?” she screamed, voice soaked with the Fade and fear.

“My dear friend,” he greeted exultantly. “We have no time.”

 _“Why?!”_ she screamed. The fingers on her remaining hand were curled into claws, and she struck out at him. “Why?! Why would you do this to me?”

The world screamed with her.

“Why now?!”

Dorian did not answer her; with no Veil to rip, he had ripped a hole in reality itself to bring her back, and he intended to capitalize on the opportunity while it remained. With a deftness that belied his status as one of the most powerful mages on the planet—a status he had obtained only at the Inquisitor’s side, with her belief, her confidence, in him—he shaped the hole in time and space around on itself, twisted it inside-out, and molded it into his desperate hope.

When the rift took shape, he allowed the Inquisitor to grab onto him. He used her furious strength to lift her from the altar she had lain upon, and he pushed her toward the rift. “Consider this retribution, perhaps,” he shouted in her ear. The end of the world was growing quite loud around them.

“To die again?! With you?” she shrieked.

“No,” he admitted bitterly. “Maybe consider this an apology. No, consider this a gift.” He sobbed, or he laughed, he could not even say. “A do-over, if you will!”

Pulses of magic—of pure power—rippled through him and threatened to tear him apart the way he had torn open the fabric of the universe. The diminutive woman in his arms looked between the rift and the Tevinter mage with confusion and agony written all across her face. “I can’t do this, Dorian!” Her furious shrieking had melted into sobs already as she echoed her last words to him. “I don’t have it in me. I’m too _tired!_ I’m done! I’m not good enough! I’m—”

And he shook her. “You are the smartest, bravest, _best_ of us all!” he roared at her. “And you are _so stupid!”_

They stared at each other, furious and heartbroken in equal measures. The Inquisitor trembled with rage and barely-contained sobs, and Dorian trembled as every atom of him threatened to fall apart.

“If you wish, go kill yourself again on the other side!” he snapped at her, and he used both hands to drag her bodily toward the rift.

“No, no, no—!” she wailed.

When Dorian pushed his last, dearest friend through the rift, and reality took its vengeance upon his body and soul, he couldn’t help but feel that he had won his war at last.


	3. Into the Dead Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/13/20

Ixchel’s vision, one moment blurred by tears and pain and the burning green light of a rift, refocused on the burning green light of a rift, and was blurred by tears from a different kind of pain.

Or, rather, many different kinds of pain.

Her arm was on fire as the Anchor unraveled the very material of her being. The world around her was on fire. Her chest burned from exertion, and her heart was pierced with sorrow and betrayal beyond reckoning. As she stared up at the Breach and the spirit of—or the spirit styling itself as—the Divine Justinia and ran from the spiders of her Fears, her broken heart pumped hot rage through her veins and spurred her forward.

The Divine’s hands burned her skin as she pulled Ixchel up the cliff face toward the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes, but they did not burn as hot as Ixchel’s own heated blood.

She hurled herself out of the Breach and landed face-first in the ashes of Thedas.

 _Herald of Andraste,_ she snarled to herself as her body began to fail again. _Spirit of Vengeance, more like._

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke, but she did not open her eyes. She could feel the manacles biting into her arms—arms, plural—and the cold bite of stone under her knees. She knew this dungeon well.

Cassandra and Leliana stalked into the chamber, and the Inquisition soldiers around Ixchel drew their weapons and stood at the ready. Ixchel sobbed despite herself. This Cassandra did not know her at all, and yet Ixchel did not think herself strong enough to face the future Divine, perhaps her dearest friend. Cassandra had tried so hard to revive Ixchel’s spirit and determination in those years after Solas revealed his plans…and Ixchel had not been strong enough. She had let her down. She had left Cassandra alone to lead whatever hopeless force that remained against Solas.

She curled over her aching arm and took a shuddering, gasping breath.

“Tell me why we should not kill you now,” the Seeker demanded behind her. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead, except for you.”

Ixchel still could not speak.

Cassandra grabbed the hand that held the Anchor and dragged Ixchel upright with it. “Explain this.”

The Anchor flared as the Breach pulsed, and Ixchel tried to contain her shriek behind her teeth. Cassandra threw her down without remorse, and Ixchel curled around the manacles again. The Anchor had not hurt this much when she had first received it. This pain was as bad as it had been at the Exalted Council.

How had her arm even been returned to her? What terrible magic had Dorian wrought? The body he had shunted her soul back into was hers as it was the day she died: that of a grown woman, one-armed, scarred, maimed, half-starved. This body felt just as bad, just as brutalized, just as old—but her arm had been returned to her. Perhaps the pain was part of whatever process had been responsible for grafting bone onto bone, muscle into muscle, sinew to sinew.

Ixchel sucked a breath viciously through her teeth and threw her head back to glower at Cassandra through her hair. “The last thing I remember was a man threatening the Divine. I tried to help, but there was a flash of green light—and then just…pain.” She winced as the Anchor opened further in her palm.

“A man?” Cassandra grabbed her again, hauled her half-way to her feet. “Who was it? Tell me what you know!”  
“Cassandra!”

Leliana pulled Cassandra back, but Ixchel had not been able to get her feet under her and was thrown back to the ground. She landed hard on her knees and crumpled to the ground in pain.

There was a chuckle from the guards around her.

She pressed her cheek to the cold ground and exhaled slowly. She did not want to see their faces and know which of her people, her Inquisition soldiers, her friends, had laughed at her pain.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” Cassandra said above her. “I will take her to the rift. If what she says is true… You must tell the others.”

Then, Cassandra knelt down and with more gentleness than Ixchel had expected—or, frankly, remembered—the Seeker was helping her sit upright.

She wondered bitterly what had happened to Cassandra… When Dorian resurrected her, it had seemed like the world was ending. She had felt the powers tugging at her, pulling her apart, rending her body… Had Cassandra been out there, facing the apocalypse…? Had her soldiers…?

“Everyone…everyone is dead,” she whispered. “How…”

“It…it will be easier to show you,” Cassandra replied, but of course, that was not what Ixchel had been talking about.

Cassandra led her out of the dungeon as a prisoner, and Ixchel blinked up into the stark green light of the Breach once again.

It had not haunted her dreams in a long time. Truth be told, it had never really scared her. It had been too vast, too abstract, too mysterious for her to be specifically afraid of it—instead, she had been curious, and driven to understand its dangers and close it. Once she understood from Solas the true nature of demons, she wasn’t even afraid of them. It was men who scared her, and what they were capable of.

Now, as she stared numbly up at the enormous rift in the sky, she was filled with an exhausted ghost of fear. She didn’t know if she could do this again.

Cassandra turned with a strangely sad look on her face. “You seem…more distraught than I expected.”

“There’s a hole in the sky,” Ixchel responded distantly, “and everyone is dead.”

“You’re right.” She clenched her fist. “The Breach is growing, and it may soon swallow the world. We must act—”

Ixchel cut her off with a hoarse cry of pain as the Anchor flared, making her fall to her knees.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark responds—and it’s killing you. The connection between you and the Breach—we believe you might be able to close it. But there isn’t much time.”

“I know, I can feel it.” Ixchel dug her fingers into the snow for some relief from the burning pain in her hand. “If I can help, I will. Whatever it takes.”

Cassandra’s hands found her arms, and lifted her to her feet.

Ixchel kept her eyes on the ground as she was dragged through Haven and Cassandra mourned the Divine and her peace talks aloud.

“We lash out, like the sky,” Cassandra mused, “but we must think beyond ourselves, as she did, until the Breach is sealed.”

Ixchel fixed her eyes on Cassandra’s back and swallowed a whimper. She missed her dear friend, whose resolve had inspired her for so long, whose resolve was strong even now.

Then Cassandra turned to free Ixchel’s hands, and the once-and-one-day-Inquisitor tried not to look at her.

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more.”

“I’ll be grateful to be alive at the end of this,” Ixchel replied, but her words were hollow, because she knew she hadn’t been, and it was hard to be now.

Tears burned her eyes as she thought of that haze of pain, and the white-hot indignation, as she was resuscitated on a slab of marble and realized what she had done, and what Dorian had done.

“Come,” Cassandra said more softly than Ixchel probably deserved. “We must test your mark. Open the gate! We are heading into the valley!”

The Breach rained fire and brimstone and probably veil quartz and Fade-touched stone down from the sky. Cassandra stayed close to her side, half pushing her and half supporting her in the wake of the ever more frequent pulses from the Breach. When they reached the next bridge, Ixchel looked to the sky and shouted, “Cassandra—!”

She and the Seeker pulled back before the bridge was struck by a massive, burning rock, and they leaned into each other without thinking in order to cover their faces from the shrapnel. The dust had hardly cleared when they heard the familiar roars of Shades picking themselves off the ice below them, and the groan of Inquisition soldiers who had fallen in the rubble—

“Seeker, let me fight alongside you,” Ixchel demanded. “We must save your people!”

“Do you think me mad?” Cassandra snapped back as she drew her own sword. “I will not give you a weapon at my back!”

“Then give me a weapon and send me in front of you!” Ixchel gestured toward the ice. “I will surely drop it from pain halfway through, or soon after, but your soldiers will not be able to support you—or defend themselves!”

Cassandra had pointed her longsword at Ixchel in warning, but now the tip wavered. The Seeker’s jaw clenched as she considered the look in her prisoner’s eyes and found it earnest.

“If you can find something, fine,” she barked, and then jumped down the embankment to meet the Shades before they reached her fallen soldiers.

Ixchel followed nimbly and skidded across the thick ice. Last time she had fallen in the rubble, most of the soldiers had been dead on the ground, weapons scattered about them. Now, she searched for the greatsword she had once loved so dearly, the one that everyone had said was far too big for her slight frame, but she had shown them—

And now she realized which soldier it had belonged to—

But she would not let the grief paralyze her, not now, not with a Shade at her back—

The battle was swift, and though her blows were somewhat clumsy due to the pain that lanced up her arm from the Anchor, she dealt with more than half of the Shades before Cassandra had even finished with her first opponent.

As soon as the last demon was vanquished, Ixchel dropped the sword to the ice and ran to the nearest Inquisition soldier. “This one’s alive,” she shouted over her shoulder to Cassandra, and then ran to the next. The woman had not been so fortunate. She went to the next, half-buried in the rubble, and began pulling at the rocks and steel.

But Cassandra’s hand on her shoulder pulled her back away. “They, and all the others, will die if we do not close the Breach,” she said grimly.

“But they—”

Ixchel swallowed dumbly at the expression on Cassandra’s face, and she was silent as Cassandra pressed the claymore she had dropped back into her hands.

“These people revile you as the Divine’s murderer, yet…”

“You’re right,” Ixchel interrupted. “We don’t have time.”

Cassandra exhaled heavily and nodded, and the two women sprinted off down the path again.

Ixchel could not explain why she sobbed as she sliced through Shades and Wraiths, or why she had clutched at her head when they reached the stairs near the first Rift—the one where she knew Solas and Varric fought alongside Inquisition soldiers. Cassandra kept a fist tangled in the straps of Ixchel’s armor and kept her standing, and she did not ask Ixchel to explain.

When they reached the top of the stairs and Ixchel saw the Rift, she saw only silhouettes battling in front of it. She did not dare focus on them, identify who the soldiers were, or look at Solas or Varric, not now. Instead, she wrenched herself free of Cassandra’s grip and sprinted toward the tear in the Veil.

She felt Solas’s gaze whip on to her as she shouldered her way through the throng and threw her hand out to grab at the fabric of reality with the Anchor, as she had so many hundreds of times in the past…

It had never hurt this badly.

She roared as she sank her fingers around the edges of the Rift and pulled, forced it closed—but it rippled, and the force of the kickback made her—and the demons around her—stagger.

There was a hand on her arm, and she yanked herself away, gasping, and shouted, “Don’t!” and threw the Anchor back up to finish what she had started.

This time, she closed the Rift and left the demons stranded, weakened, stunned.

Ixchel curled over herself, doubled over at the waist, Anchor clutched tight to her chest. She was not in so much pain as she was shielding herself from the sight of him.

“So the mark can close the rifts!” Cassandra gasped.

“As I said,” Solas’s lilting voice began, “whatever magic caused the Breach placed that mark in her hand.”

“Meaning it could close the Breach itself!”

“Possibly.”

Ixchel ground her teeth until her jaw ached, but Varric spared her from speaking. “Good to know. Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

She turned to face him instead of Solas, and she blew out her cheeks to hide the hitch in her breath, because he looked so much younger than when she had last seen him. The shadows of Hawke’s sacrifice had been lifted from his face, and the troubles from Kirkwall were the ones of the past, not the ones of the future—

“Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at Cassandra.

“Has the good Seeker recruited you to record her glorious deeds, Master Tethras?” Ixchel said breezily. “It is an honor.”

“Ah, well. I’d say it was nice to meet a fan, but technically, I’m a prisoner just like you.”

“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“Yet, here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events.”

“That crossbow of yours is mighty fine,” Ixchel said lightly. “She’ll be good company in the valley, if it’s anything like it’s been on the way here.”

“Oh, it’s worse,” Varric said. “Bianca and I have already been through it.”

Ixchel smirked and nodded at him, even as Cassandra stormed over to tell him to leave. As they bickered, Ixchel heard a voice in her ear.

“I am pleased to see you still live,” Solas said quietly.

She nearly jumped out of her skin, but her feet would not remove her from his presence. He smelled so much like he always had. His aura wasn’t as strong, but she could still feel his power—

“My name is Solas, if introductions are to be had.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

“I’m not going to thank you for that,” Ixchel said wryly and gestured at the Breach before she looked back to meet Solas’s gaze. His brow had furrowed, but when he saw her crooked smirk, the corner of his mouth tugged upward. It struck her like a blow, then: she missed him. She missed that hidden smile. She missed how she could strike him off balance, and she missed how he could catch up.

“So how have you come to know so much about the mark?” she asked, and she crossed her right arm over to rub her left elbow—as she had gotten in the habit of doing, after he had taken her arm and the Anchor with it.

“I have traveled deep into the Fade—”

“Solas is an apostate, who is well-versed in these matters.”

He rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “Technically _all_ mages are now apostates, Cassandra. But my particular travels outside of the Circles have allowed me to study many things beyond their purview. I came to offer whatever help I can give, with the Breach. If it’s not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of our origin.”

“And what will you do when all this is over?” Ixchel asked.

“You mean if they reinstate the Circles?” His face was a schooled mask of calm, but she saw his boredom behind it. “One would hope those in charge remember who helped them stave off the apocalypse.” He turned to Cassandra, who was also frowning. “Cassandra, this woman is indeed not a mage. That was not the technique of one calling upon an inner reserve of magic—it is the mark alone that allowed her to do that.”

“I understand.”

Solas followed Cassandra, and they continued to speak in murmurs about the implications of his observation, but Varric remained at her side. He looked up at Ixchel. “Well, Bianca’s excited.”

Ixchel snorted and ducked her head to follow in the wake of the Seeker.


	4. A Dalish Herald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/13/20

She knew Cassandra’s fighting style better than she should have, but if the Seeker was surprised at how closely Ixchel followed her, how deftly the elf stepped into her blind spots and anticipated her moves, she did not comment.

“You are Dalish, yet there has been no clan seen in the area,” Solas remarked as they caught their breaths after a battle. Ixchel shoved her hands into the remains of a demon and fished out what parts she could carry, thinking of elixirs she would need and tonics she could whip up… “Did they send you here by yourself?”

“How did—”

She stopped, staring numbly down at her hands, covered as they were with ichor. She had not worn vallaslin when she had arrived at the Conclave as a girl. She had been too young, too new to the clan, to have earned them. She had not even earned them from the Lavellan Keeper; Keeper Hawen had given them to her so many years afterward.

When she first met him, she had tried to prove in every way possible that she was an ally, that she was more elf than human, that she was more Dalish than Chantry, and she had proved it to the moons and back. But it was when she sought out Hawen and told him the truth about Inquisitor Ameridan that the Keeper had clasped her on the shoulders and pressed a kiss to her brow and named her Lore-Finder, Secret-Keeper, Finder-of-Kin. And he had offered her the vallaslin of Dirthamen.

Solas had pulled her aside as she prepared herself spiritually to take the honor, and he had told her of the true meaning behind their markings. It had been their first all-out fight: she had grabbed him by the coat and sat him down and shouted in his face, and he had gripped her by the shoulders and shook her, called her ungrateful—

Ixchel swallowed. “Yes,” she said. “I’m alone.” She looked up at him bitterly. “Have you met many clans on your travels?”

“I have traveled many roads indeed,” he replied, “and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

“We are both of the same people, Solas.”

He gave that sardonic smile. “The Dalish I met felt…differently on the subject.”

“Then you must have come to them with the airs of an Outsider,” she said curtly. “We see whatever face you present to us. We are trusting, in that way.” She gave him a tight smile. “But—” and she spoke before Varric could comment “—we can discuss it over some wine after the world has remembered that it’s not supposed to fall apart.”

She wiped her hands in the snow and marched on after Cassandra, who had hardly waited for them.

-:-:-:-:-

“So, are you innocent?”

“I tried to help the Divine,” she said. “But maybe that just provoked whatever villain was threatening her in the first place.”

“You should try to be more direct,” Varric said dryly. “‘Yes, I’m innocent,’ is a little more believable.”

She ignored him and ran to the next Rift.

-:-:-:-:-

Cassandra ordered the gate open, and they hurried through.

And then Ixchel stopped, because Leliana was arguing loudly with Roderick, and Ixchel had not gotten better at being yelled at by opinionated men.

She cowered behind Cassandra until the Breach flared and the mark nearly drove Ixchel to her knees.

When Cassandra bent over her and asked her which route to take, Ixchel straightened up with what strength she had. “Those scouts on the mountain pass—they must have encountered a rift. I’ll go to them, if it’s the last thing I do.” She offered Roderick a small smile. “But hopefully, that’ll be closing the Breach. I’m not looking forward to your Chantry justice, Chancellor.”

He scowled at her, but there was a strange look on his face as Cassandra and Leliana conferred about taking the mountain route.

“You don’t seem the type to leave anyone behind,” Ixchel told Cassandra. “I’m glad you’re leading this thing, and not that guy.”

“As I said,” Cassandra murmured, “we lash out like the sky.” She looked at Ixchel obliquely. “But I am glad to find that you, too, would not leave anyone behind.”

“Never,” she agreed.

Ixchel found climbing the ladders to the mountain pass much harder than it should have been, with the Anchor flaring so frequently. After a particularly bad wave, she hung from a rung with one arm and stared at the mark opening in her hand. It was nearly blinding, and her ears rang with the pain, and she thought she heard Dorian screaming at her in the thundering roar of her pulse, and—

A hand clasped her foot, and she felt a wave of magic wash through her, and she yelped.

She nearly kicked Solas in the face as she scrambled up the ladder away from him.

When she reached the top platform she threw herself on her hands and knees and gasped for air like a fish out of water. Cassandra, who had gone ahead of her, knelt beside her.

“We must hurry, before the mark consumes you,” Solas said as he came up the ladder next. “Is the pain very great?”

Ixchel could not answer. She had no words for what haunted her, but pain was not quite enough to explain it.

She leaned heavily on Cassandra until they reached the mouth of the mine, and then she reached for her greatsword and held it in both hands. Her left hand shook—except for when it was wrapped around the hilt of her weapon. Then, it felt like she was whole.

“Demons,” she called over her shoulder, and then she charged, sweeping her blade like a whirlwind before Cassandra or anyone else could get in the path of her blade.

“You have an…interesting style,” Cassandra commented when they reached the end of the mine. “I did not think it typical of the Dalish.”

“It’s not,” Ixchel said. “I wasn’t raised by them for long at all."

“You weren’t?” Cassandra eyed her vallaslin curiously.

“Over wine, after the Breach is closed,” Ixchel repeated. “Is that one of your scouts?”

It was indeed, and there were more ahead. Ixchel charged through the bodies but was tackled by a Terror before she could reach the Rift to destabilize it. Fortunately, Solas was by her in a split second, casting a barrier over her skin so that the Terror’s teeth did not quite find purchase—but she certainly would have a nasty bruise along her neck, later.

Ixchel shoved the demon off with a greatsword to the chest, and then she continued hacking it apart until its dismembered remains resembled nothing more than tatters on the ground.

She took care of the rift as quickly as she could, spoke to the head scout, and then pulled on Cassandra’s arm. “It’s ahead, I feel it,” she lied.

She was mostly just looking forward to being unconscious again.

-:-:-:-:-

She was nearly paralyzed when she heard Corypheus’s voice again after so many years. Her wide eyes met Solas’s as he spoke to Cassandra in the wake of the ancient magister’s comment, and she tried to quell the panic that rose in her throat when she realized she still could not see through his mask, still could not see the lies, the knowledge, that he hid from them all.

_Futile. Futile._

He reached for her in concern when he saw her terrified stare, but she flinched and drew away—and nearly jumped right in to a spire of red lyrium.

“Don’t touch that, kid!” Varric gasped. “It’s red lyrium. It’s just _evil.”_

Ixchel couldn’t do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She could hear the lyrium calling to her like it never had before, and she could hear Corypheus mocking her, and she could hear Solas—

Ixchel turned, and she ran head-first off the precipice toward the Rift.

“Ready?” she shouted shrilly over her shoulder. Leliana’s scouts, Cullen’s soldiers, Cassandra—they all gave the signal, and without waiting for Solas to cast a barrier or for Varric to get in place, Ixchel tore open the rift and let the Pride demon through.

She had branded so many runes into the lining of her armor, worked with Dagna to apply masterwork riveting and plates to the cuirass, spent so much care picking the materials, the dyes, of her armor, that she barely felt the Pride demon’s whip when it came down on her back. She did, certainly, feel it when the Pride demon caught her in the ribs with its swinging arms and threw her back fifty feet into a wall.

She landed on the ground beside Solas, rolling like a ragdoll until he managed to catch her and stop her fall.

“Are you alright?” he asked with more desperation in his voice than she had heard in—

Ixchel pushed herself onto her hands and knees and spat blood onto the blackened ground. Her sword was missing, somewhere in the rubble. “Dread Wolf take—” she spat again, pushed him aside, and ran back toward the Rift with the Anchor outstretched.

The Pride demon fell with someone’s sword sticking out of its forehead, and Ixchel felt the Anchor finally take hold of the Veil, and she summoned all her strength, all her anger, to piece the world back together again, because how _dare_ it fall apart after all she had done—

-:-:-:-:-

She sat up before she even woke up fully, and she scared the elven servant who had been tending to her half to death.

She murmured as many comforting things to the young elf as she could, but they were just a child, and they babbled wildly about telling Cassandra and finding Cassandra and—

“Hey, hey,” Ixchel murmured. “Tell me your name, and then please tell Cassandra I will find her shortly.”

The kid ignored her entirely and ran out of the hut, bowing and scraping and babbling all the while.

Ixchel threw herself back in bed and stared at the ceiling that she was so familiar with. She had had a brief moment, as she woke, where she didn’t know where she was or what was happening to her, and she wished she could go back to that ignorance, panicked though it had been. Now that she was awake, she knew that one day this hut, like the rest of Haven, would be buried and lost under half a mountain’s worth of snow.

She knew too much.

Her brows knit together. Had she dreamed at all, while she was out? Would Solas peek into her corners of the Fade? Would she be able to keep her secrets from him?

She needed to establish thick and sturdy boundaries as quickly as she could, in the waking world and elsewhere.

Ixchel still tasted blood in her mouth, and poison, and—elfroot?

She worked her tongue around her teeth and found the offending plant matter and spat it out. Three-day-old tonics and powders coated the roof of her mouth, and she realized now that she was parched.

She coughed and spluttered as she forced herself out of bed and tried to dress herself. Her armor had been laid out neatly on a table, but her claymore was gone. She felt more hurt than probably she should have been that she had lost it this time around. She had kept that blade and beaten it to a sad, blunted pulp against mabari and bears and Templars and dragons, in another life.

She tied up her hair once she’d dressed, and she stared at her face in the mirror. The vallaslin was there, and the dragonling scars, and the scars from Red Templars and Corypheus himself and from High Dragons, too. A whole life was written across her features—nearly a decade of hard work as the Inquisitor. There was no way to deny it, to pretend, to pass it off as a dream.

Ixchel tied off her braids close to her head and set her jaw. She knew that worship lay outside her door. She knew what a tool it would be in the months and years to come. The sooner she could claim that power, the sooner she could cast it aside and denounce it in favor of the truth. She was not chosen by the Maker, nor by his Bride. Every feat that had seemed so great, so un-mortal, was achieved by her own grit and the help of her friends.

 _“Take heart in that,”_ she had told her troops before Adamant, _“for in that way, we are all capable of making history.”_

“Take heart,” she murmured to herself.

As she turned to the door, something gleamed on the floor and caught her eye. A crystal had fallen under the bed—its cord having come untied in her sleep.

Ixchel stared at the crystal. And stared. And stared.

Did Dorian, right now, have its partner? _Partners?_ She frowned. _Her_ Dorian, or the Dorian who was still a stranger? Could she see through the rift in reality he had opened and hear the end of the world on the other side?

Her hands and lips shook too much to activate it, but she slipped the crystal under her cuirass anyway before she stepped out into Haven.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel marched in to the room that would one day soon hold her war table, and she slammed the door against the wall to interrupt the argument between the Chancellor and the Seeker.

Their gazes snapped to her as she entered, and Roderick hesitated for a moment too long. She did not give him time to tell her to be chained, or to accuse her.

“My Lord, my Ladies,” she said briskly. “I see the Breach is stable, yet I hear that I am still a suspect in the Divine’s murder. Those of you—and the _eighty-odd soldiers_ —who were there when I stabilized the Breach three days ago heard the voice of the man who _did_ kill the Divine.”

She crossed her arms and looked at Roderick coldly. “That man is still out there, Chancellor, and he may have allies. I would hope that you realize that someone capable of creating the Breach is a far greater threat than a disfigured little elf.”

She nodded at the stunned, enraged Chancellor, then looked to Leliana and Cassandra. “Call me prisoner, or call me whatever blasphemous title the people out there are tossing around, I don’t _care_. I’m scared of that magic and that man, and I want to stop him. How can I help?”

There was a moment of silence between the three leaders.

Then, Cassandra went to her desk and grabbed up the writ of the Inquisition. “We shall rebuild the Inquisition of old,” Leliana announced. Cassandra slammed it on to the war table in front of Roderick. “We will find those who will stand against the chaos. Will you stand with us?”

And she looked at Ixchel and Roderick both.

Ixchel nodded.

Roderick fled.

“Then we have no Chantry support,” Leliana sighed. “No leader. No numbers…”

“And no choice,” Cassandra said.

“You have me,” Ixchel said. “For whatever that is worth.”

“The Breach may be stable, but it is not closed,” Cassandra said. “Your mark is still our only hope. Some think you are chosen by the Maker, but some still believe you are guilty—as you have seen just now. If you fight at our side, we will protect you as best we can.”

“Thank you, Seeker,” she said. “Lady Nightingale. Who else stands with us?”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel tried to keep her heart under control when she saw Cullen again, and Josephine. “I’m pleased you survived,” Cullen said, and Josephine greeted her in her own tongue, and Leliana and Cassandra teased each other—and Ixchel nearly drowned in the echoes of hundreds of war councils they had presided over together.  
Cullen and Leliana bickered over the mages and the Templars, and Josephine interjected and brought all eyes back to Ixchel.

“That’s quite the title isn’t it,” Cullen remarked. His eyes hardened as he looked at her. “How do you feel about that?”

“It’s impersonal and foreign,” she responded immediately. “It will not serve us in the long run for our forces to believe me touched by divinity. I would rather they believe that we are all capable of greatness, given the opportunity.”

She realized belatedly, as the faces turned toward her fell blank with shock and consideration, that she had spoken of _our_ forces, instead of _their_ forces. She had spoken like she was a leader among them, a strategist--an equal.

She whet her lips. “For now,” she added, “I’m sure our spymaster and our ambassador can find leverage with it, in the right circles.”

Cullen nodded.

“What those _are_ remains to be seen,” Josephine said with a sigh. “We are but heretics, and you a symbol of everything that has gone wrong.”

“There is a Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle who would like to speak to you,” Leliana followed.

“I have heard of her, in the war effort,” Ixchel lied. “She seems a reasonable and kind leader. How far away is she now?”

“She will not leave the field where she and her sisters are acting as medics,” Leliana said. “You must go to her.”

“Right away, Lady Nightingale,” Ixchel said.

“Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there,” Cullen said. “I’m sure you’ll find plenty in the Hinterlands.”

Ixchel listened as they made plans to send their scouts ahead with responses to Mother Giselle and the civilians caught in the crossfire of the Mage-Templar war. When at last they called the first war council of the Inquisition to an end, Ixchel tried not to flee to quickly.

Unfortunately, Cassandra caught up to her.

“So it no longer hurts you?”

Ixchel sighed. “It’s a constant thing,” she murmured. “Like a cramp in a sword hand.”

Cassandra sighed as well. “Solas believes it has stabilized, with the Breach. He thinks that it has its own power, and that if we find a way to strengthen it, you might be able to close the Breach for good. Perhaps it will also remove the mark from your hand.”

“It feels like it’s a part of me already…and not in a good way.” Ixchel clenched her fist and sighed. “Making strange magicks we don’t understand stronger… You have an interesting idea of fun, Seeker.”

They shared a smirk and exited the Chantry.

Ixchel squared her shoulders as Cassandra left her at the door, and she marched off to the corner in which she knew Solas always sequestered himself. “ _Arani_ ,” she said politely. He turned from where he had been considering the Breach, hand still on his chin. She did not smile at him. “I’m surprised you’re still here. You don’t have a divine mark granting you protection from the shems.”

Solas chuckled. “I’m not certain even the rumor of divinity would protect either of us, with the way they are speaking about you, _Herald_.”

She stopped dead in her tracks at the double-meaning behind his words, and she tilted her head at the Trickster God who stood before her. She had caught on to him eventually—at least in some ways—but had he _always_ been so _obvious?_

“My name is Ixchel,” she said, trying not to smile too bitterly. “I did not introduce myself properly before, and I think we got off to a rocky start.” She inclined her head. “I haven’t found any wine, but I didn’t want to hold off on apologizing.”

“Truly there is no need,” Solas replied. “I can only imagine how hostile the world must have seemed after being woken to all of this.” He waved an elegant hand back toward the valley and the Breach above it.

“Yeah,” she said, and then she stopped, because their eyes had met—really locked—for the first time, and she had not been prepared for this. She didn’t have a story. She didn’t know what she wanted to say, reveal, ask. She knew he had once planned on running far away from the Inquisition to plot and grow his power, and she did not want to lose track of Fen’Harel so early on…and she did not want to lose Solas’s company. Again.

She looked away. “I _am_ sorry, though,” she said softly. “The Dalish have been kind to me in ways that others have not, and I owe them my life. I’m sure you must have been made to feel unwelcome, in the past, and I should not dismiss that.”

Solas was quiet for a moment, and when she glanced at him, she found him considering her intently. He had dropped his arms to his sides. “You’re wise not to extrapolate your own experiences onto others,” he said slowly, “but I must also acknowledge that I have done that as well. Perhaps we are both right, and wrong, by degrees.”

She offered him a small smile. “If they give you any trouble here, Solas, let me know,” she said. “I will do whatever is necessary to protect you. They can throw me out like Shartan or burn me like Andraste. I don’t care.”

He gave her another long look, then dipped his head. “You said we are of the same people. I can sense how strongly you believe that.”

“I mean—” She bit her own tongue from how quickly she tried to shut herself up, and he raised his eyebrows at that. “I’m a far way from home, and you’re not a brainwashed Andrastian city elf like the rest of them here,” she said by way of explanation. She rolled her aching tongue around her mouth. “We’ll get out of this alive if we stick with each other.”

She couldn’t help the conviction behind her words.

“You are still afraid,” he observed.

“More than you can possibly imagine," she deadpanned.

He took a small step closer, and Ixchel tried not to flinch away.

“I don’t mean to make a habit of saving your life,” he said, and she heard the dry humor in his voice that she had missed _so much_ since he left, “but I would be glad to help in any way I can, if the need arises.”

“It might,” she said, and he raised an eyebrow. “They’re sending me deep into the Hinterlands to find some Chantry lady who maybe doesn’t think I’m entirely a savage or a heretic or responsible for the Breach. But there’s a whole war going on in-between.” She spread her hands out in entreaty.

His eyebrow rose higher. “It seems you are less nervous about wading into a war than remaining here. Is that right?”

She shrugged. “I think I prefer to have bears thrown at me, rather than worshippers,” she remarked, and she began to turn back toward the rest of the camp. “I don’t know when we’ll be ready to leave, but it seems you travel light.”

Ixchel heard the snow crunch as he turned away from her, and when she felt that he had looked away, she let the ghost of her courage leave her. Her shoulders sagged, and she leaned against the corner of the tavern and tried to ignore the whispers of her faithful all around.

* * *


	5. To the Hinterlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/13/20

Her first week in Haven was harder than it ever should have been.

Ixchel quickly gained a reputation for being both aloof and also having an uncanny insight into the faithful’s lives. She couldn’t help her knowledge, at times, or her sometimes knee-jerk reaction to seeing the dead walking by.

She had spent so much time in the training yard as a young woman, new to the sword, new to the Inquisition, new to this side of _Thedas_ , and she had come to know so many of these people who would become _her_ soldiers by name. When Haven had fallen, she had mourned the fallen as her friends.

And in the ensuing years—in the war against Corypheus and his mind-controlled Grey Wardens, against his Red Templars, and eventually against the Qun and Fen’Harel alike—she had mourned so many as part of an extended family she had never had.

Her strange reactions seemed to only add to her mystique, and she hated _that_ just as much as she had last time.

She spent as much time as she could absorbed in forging a new sword from what few materials they had available as an infant organization. It did not take long for Harrit to warm up to her once she had demonstrated her knowledge and expressed her desire to help gather resources when she eventually ventured out of Haven. She understood supply lines and stockpiles and design requirements. More than that, she found that it wasn’t so difficult to harness her sense of humor when she was working at the forge.

She missed working with Dagna and Harrit together in the Undercroft as they discovered how to manipulate veil quartz and Fade-touched materials to make stronger and more beautiful armor than Thedas had ever seen, and created new runes to ward their soldiers against demons and evil. But even more fundamentally, she had always enjoyed working side by side with the smiths.

Ixchel tried to keep to herself besides her time at the forge and, once she had obtained a new claymore weighted to her liking, on the training ground. She did not spar with Cullen or Cassandra but rather worked her paces with the training dummies on her own.

She knew it was already clear from how the soldiers watched her, sometimes, that she had talent and ferocity that was unexpected. She did not need to raise questions of who had trained her or reveal that she knew too much of Cullen and Cassandra’s fighting styles.

She spent most of her time with Varric, pestering him about Hawke. She passed it off as being a fan, but she wasn’t interested in the glory bits or the gory bits. She approached him for his insights as Hawke’s closest friend, and asked about the moments that inspired Varric the most—the aspects of the man who had won Varric’s undying loyalty, even after the Fade had swallowed Hawke whole.

There was one mistake she was certain she wouldn’t make twice.

She did not avoid Solas, per say, but she did avoid thinking about the logical knots and mind games she would need to employ to hide her truths from him. She was smart, canny even, but she had never been a good liar. For that matter, she wasn’t particularly good at lies of omission, either. She couldn’t help it: she was an earnest person and did not enjoy wearing masks.

At every opportunity she had disabused those around her from any notion of her divinity or her nobility or her destiny. The only thing she had never spoken of openly was the weight she carried around her neck. Only Dorian and Cassandra really knew what was trying to kill her from the inside out.

She wondered what they had been planning on saying at her memorial.

The loneliness hit her harder than it had the first time, too. Now, she knew what she was missing.

Still, when it came time, it was harder than she had ever thought it would be to leave Haven behind.

-:-:-:-:-

In the early days—before the hart, before the bog unicorn, and before the giant nugs—she had traveled with Inquisition scouts in a caravan of carts and ponies. Back then, as a shy teenager thrown out of her depth, she had tucked herself in a corner of a cart and kept to herself mostly.

Now, she spent most of her time in the driver’s seat with Varric beside her; Cassandra rode her own horse and coordinated with the scouts, and Solas sat in the cart and napped behind them.

At first, Ixchel was quiet, because she had already started to run out of things to ask that she didn’t already know, and because she preferred Solas’s company when he was asleep and _not_ asking her questions. But then _Varric_ started pestering her, and Solas woke to listen to her story.

“Orphan,” she grunted at him when he asked about her family. “The world doesn’t care much for street rats unless you’re a mageling, and then the Templars come and if you’re lucky you end up in a cushy Circle. I wished for that,” she admitted, “on the cold days, or when I couldn’t find food.”

Solas made a soft noise, almost a scoff, behind her.

“Really, Solas. No clan, no family, no _skills_ ,” she said. "Ears too sharp to be let into an orphanage, ears too round to be taken in by most Dalish. A Circle seemed like heaven in comparison.” She sighed a little. “I dreamed of their food, and their fancy robes…”

“But you wear the—” Varric gestured at her face. “They got over the ears eventually, yeah?”

“Clan Lavellan is more friendly with human society than most of the Dalish. It was luck that I ended up near Wycome, where they’ve taken on somewhat of a responsibility for the poor and the downtrodden.” She rubbed the reigns between her fingers. “When they took me in, it was to teach me to hunt so that I could fend for myself. But I couldn’t bear to leave. It was the first time I had felt…felt like I had a family…”

And her throat constricted with emotions she could not describe fully, because Clan Lavellan was alive here, and her dearest friends were here, and even more would soon join her once again—and then, on the absolute worst day of her life, they would all leave.

Varric touched her elbow lightly. There was a haunted look in his eye. “I get it, kid,” he said, and she nodded.

She was silent for a moment, then continued in a lower voice so that Cassandra did not hear as she rode by.

“They didn’t just get over the ears, they embraced them.” She tucked her chin a little. “I could travel more quickly than a clan and its aravels. I could go into cities that weren’t so friendly to those with more elf blood than I have. I became a liaison of sorts, and it was a purpose I clung to. That was the role I was meant to fulfill at the Conclave.”

“That is a very polite way of admitting you are a spy,” Solas said, and he had also pitched his voice to the same volume as the creak of the cart so that he would not be overheard.

“Well, you’re never human enough to the shems who _really_ care,” she admitted. “If I were a spy, I wouldn’t have taken the vallaslin as I have.”

“Yeah, a little hard to hide that.”

“Except in Orlais,” she muttered with a wry smile. “But no amount of wine and finger foods has been able to curb my hatred of that place.”

Solas hummed. “You do seem fixated on wine, <i>arani,</i>” he noted.

“Honestly, I could use something stiffer after the week I’ve had.” She flicked the reigns over the mule’s back and looked longingly at the horizon. Coffee and whiskey and cream—a vice she had picked up from Solas, before the end.

Varric was giving her a critical look from foot to crown. “I’m not sure if I can picture you in one of those fancy dresses.”

She faltered.

“No, not anymore, I think.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel found herself dreaming more and more lucidly as she spent more time with the Anchor. She had been practicing so much toward the end that she nearly had it—and then Solas had taken the Anchor, and what connection she had to the Fade had been stunted.

She never knew, really, if her encounters with the pale wolf from then on were dreams of her own making or true brushes with her lost companion. Sometimes she swore she had truly seen him, chased him—even, a few times, spoken with him—but it never changed anything in the waking world, so in the end it didn’t really matter.

But now, with her practice and her focus and the Anchor back in her arm, she was so close to being able to step out of her dream and into the wider Fade.

She needed to, if she was going to protect herself from his meddling.

Unfortunately, the more lucid she strove to be in her dreams, the more viciously her own psyche tried to pull her back into unconsciousness. She was quickly coming to suspect the Nightmare’s involvement, but her brain had been broken already, even without its meddling. Like so many other things, the truth did not matter.

In just the two weeks since she had fallen out of the Breach (again), she had been forced to wake herself several times as demons crowded the edges of her dreams. They wore the faces of her friends: those who fell, those who left, those who had turned on her. They twisted her dreams into memories of the Crossroads, full of eluvians surrounded by burning skies. They dragged her off of cliffs swarming with darkspawn. They held her up against a tapestry of Haven as it burned, and they pursued her through dark blizzards on the Frostbacks.

When she woke, screaming, in the wake of a memory of the Chargers—broken bodies strewn about the beach like discarded dolls—she was just glad that they weren’t in the main Inquisition camp for Lace and her scouts to hear.

Unfortunately, having Solas, Cassandra, and Varric burst into her tent to see what was assaulting her was not much better.

She was ashamed of how her breaths wrenched from her chest like sobs, and she felt betrayed by even more than her own body as the Anchor flared in her hand.

“The mark!” Cassandra gasped. “Does that mean the Breach—” and she ducked back out of the tent to look up at the sky.

But Ixchel sat up and pushed her hair back away from her face with the hand that bore the mark, and she shook her head at Solas and Varric. “It’s not the Breach that’s unstable,” she said bitterly, and she stared at the hole in her palm until its green light faded. She flexed her fingers and focused on the sight of the callouses she had developed once again on her palm. Her hand did not hurt; this wasn’t a pulse from the Anchor, not really.

“Hey now, I wouldn’t stand for anyone talking about you like that, and I’m not gonna make an exception just because _you’re_ the one doing the shit talking.” Varric and Solas had entered her tent fully, but neither of them approached.

“I’m not slandering myself, Varric,” she mumbled. “It’s reacting _to_ me. What time is it?”

“Just before dawn,” Solas replied. She didn’t look at him as she kicked her way out of her bedroll and stood. “Ixchel, you have not rested well—”

“And I won’t,” she said with finality. “It is not a luxury my position affords me as the face of the Inquisition or as the bearer of this blasted thing.” She waved the Anchor at him dismissively and stooped to collect her belongings.

Varric sucked in a sharp breath, then released it as a long sigh, before he left her. Solas lingered for a moment longer.

She pinned him with a dark look. _“Garas quenathra,_ Solas?”

“Did you have nights like this, before you received the mark?”

 _What a question,_ she mused. No, she had not. But she had also not experienced nightmares like this before Adamant, before betrayal and loss and death had truly entered her life—all because of the mark, and because of him.

“With a face like this, do you need to ask?” she said instead. He had the grace to wince.

 _“Ir abelas, ma falon,”_ he murmured, and he left her to her preparations.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel took care that she did not lead her friends into a dragon’s domain—not this time. She felt confident in her ability to face down a High Dragon, but she was painfully aware of how weak Solas’s barriers were, how slow Varric’s trigger finger was, how Cassandra’s shield arm kept angling too low. Perhaps by the time Bull found her way back into her life, she would tackle that corner of the Hinterlands.

She wondered, as she drifted half-asleep by the fire one night, if such a creature would recognize its handiwork in her face the way Solas surely recognized his magic in her arm?

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel cleared the road to Redcliffe preemptively, but as soon as the gates were open to her, she led her party in the opposite direction. “Our efforts in town won’t win their hearts,” she said when Cassandra made a confused sound. “We have a reputation to build out here.” She gestured at the landscape marred by pits and melting pillars of ice.

“Are you sure you’re not just looking for more puzzles to solve?” Varric drawled.

She shot him a wry smile. “History and mystery, my dear dwarf,” she replied. “Some of us must find our history in the scraps left behind in the waking world. And Cassandra, don’t worry,” she added, “we’ll head to the Crossroads today now that we’ve cut off reinforcements from the rebel camp and the Templar outpost.”

Cassandra nodded curtly. “That was a wise decision,” she admitted. “It would not be good to have a small army crawling over our backs.”

They cleared the Crossroads with a handful of Inquisition soldiers, and as the Inquisition’s banner was planted in the area, she felt a surge of pride rise in her throat. She saluted her soldiers gratefully, and they thumped their chests in return.

“Misty-eyed there, Herald?” Varric asked when she turned to go in search of Mother Giselle.

“It’s somehow more real, with the banner there. We really can protect these people.”

He fell silent as he contemplated her. “What?” she asked.

“You remind me of someone,” he said, and he let her outpace him.

She had a somber discussion with Mother Giselle about fate and politics, and she convinced the Chantry leader to return to Haven on the next caravan.

“I honestly don’t know if you’ve been touched by fate, or sent to help us,” Mother Giselle mused, “but I hope. Hope is what we need now.”

Ixchel could not school her features well enough, and Mother Giselle lay a hand on her shoulder.

“You have given the people hope. Do you save none for yourself?”

Ixchel floundered in words she could never say—memories that were no longer memories, but not quite premonitions, either. She was saved from replying by the arrival of several carts full of ram meat, winter blankets, and other supplies she had requisitioned for her scouts and arranged to bring to the refugees.

Mother Giselle’s hand slipped down to touch hers lingeringly, and then the Chantry sister bowed her head and went to meet the carts.


	6. Troubled Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/15/20

Ixchel took Solas alone with her to scout some ruins and promised Cassandra that they would return at the first sight of a rift. But Ixchel knew that, while there were more rifts to close, they had not yet opened, just as some of the larger deposits of red lyrium had not yet reached the surface.

She had pointed out the ruin a few days in to their journey across the valley, and Solas had looked at her curiously but did not say anything to suggest that he wanted to venture there. When she turned to him one morning as she laced up her boots and told him he was coming with her, get ready, he had raised a lone eyebrow at her and followed without raising questions.

When they were out of earshot, he looked out on the horizon with a smile on his face. “That tower is impressive even as a ruin. I wonder what dreams it might hold.”

Ixchel was struck by the smile and the enthusiasm that leaked into his tone. He had never been so open with his feelings, in the past—either in the weeks since the Conclave, or in the years they had known each other when she was much younger. She found that a smile tugged at her mouth despite herself, and she caught at her lips with her teeth to try and stifle it. The corner still escaped her, and Solas’s own small smile grew at the sight.

The sight rendered her unexpectedly breathless. It was a strange dichotomy, how everyone reacted to her as a grown woman and how they reacted to her when she was a child—and it was interesting that even Solas, as old and as immortal as he was, looked at her differently. Though he had been seemingly drawn to her (whether due to the Anchor in her hand, her pointed ears, or some other connection they might have had), he still had maintained a distance between them.

He simply knew so much more about the world than she did; he held such sorrow in him that she had not yet encountered herself; he had positioned himself as an adviser and tutor in many regards. He allowed her to pull only the smallest of smiles, the softest of laughs, from him on the rare occasion. His enthusiasm for history and artifacts of the People was expressed in his deep and thorough lessons—but how often had he simply allowed himself to be enthusiastic in front of her, to be excited at the prospect of _anything_?

Ixchel realized she had held his gaze for a moment too long.

“That’s why I brought the bedroll,” she said cheekily, but her heart was in her throat and butterflies had taken up residence in the space it left. “You can take a nap, I mean. I’m in it for the frescoes.”

“The graffiti? It is interesting.” His pale eyes glimmered. “If I learn of their artists, would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes, thank you. I may have a slightly obsessive interest in the symbolism of my ancestors’ art. I think—” and in her mind’s eye, she saw another rotunda, in another ancient place, where she had found an ancient staff hidden by the ghosts of a flame under a Dread Wolf’s gaze. She had found the Heart of Pride. But she had already held it, and they both knew it.

_Var lath vir suledin._

_I wish it could, vhenan._

“I think they’re trying to tell me things, but like Elvhen, only my heart understand and not my mind.”

Ixchel tried to flee the conversation by using the handle of her axe to push herself up onto the next rock and meditated upon the sight of the land below them. Though they had routed the larger groups of Templars and rebel Mages, the valley still bore scars of their battles. Yet even now she could see nature reclaiming the most ravaged sites: bears and august rams roamed across open spaces. In their footprints and in their feces, they would leave the seeds of new life. She would put money on it that by the time she returned here, the burns would be paved over with young green grass and flowers.

And Blighted lyrium, probably.

She struggled to keep her eyes on the horizon, when she really wanted to look down at her left hand and make sure it was real.

“You have seen a great deal of battle,” Solas said from below her.

“Why do you say that?” She twirled her axe in one hand.

“It is not just your skill. It is the way you navigate conflicts, even those that are not on the field of war.” His long fingers twisted around the roughly hewn staff they had scavenged for him in the emptied Mage hideout, then untwisted again. He was studying her, and had come to a more certain conclusion. “You have lived and breathed war. You understand it. It is home to you.”

Ixchel’s mouth went dry, and she tried to see beyond the flat panes of his eyes and into his thoughts. What ulterior motive did he have for finding this connection between them? Was he trying to ingratiate himself to her sad soul? Or was he fishing for information, working on a hunch about some secret he thought she held?

“I have known little else,” she said at last, coming away without the answers she sought.

“We have both seen terrible things, _ma falon_. We have watched death and destruction render that which we love unrecognizable.”

Those eyes glimmered, and maybe she did see something framed within them: a hint of the ancient grief he had shown her in the aftermath of Adamant, the first time she had called all of the shots and held sole responsibility for the Inquisition and Warden deaths she had not been able to spare. She had seen that same grief more plainly when he told her of the Evanuris, of his efforts to break the chains of his People, and the consequences of his choice to raise the Veil.

“It is calming to see something familiar in another.”

She looked back at her axe. They had found it on a fallen Templar—encased in a block of ice. The enchanted ice had ensured that the surface of the axehead had corroded what was likely once a mirrored surface, but she could not see past the pits and rust. She frowned at it anyway.

“I have a troubled relationship with mirrors, Solas,” she told him cryptically, and she jumped down from her rock back onto the path toward the ruined tower.

-:-:-:-:-

She was jealous of the ease with which Solas lay down and fell asleep. She sat cross-legged in front of the murals—stark reds, deep blacks, streaked with the elements—and tried not to lose herself in the symbols she knew and the symbols she did not.

Ixchel contemplated the depiction of her ancient ancestors on a long march, their numbers weighed down with rage and sorrow, haunted by a black weight and shrouded by a red sky. Was it the Long March? Was it a depiction of slavery? Was it a representation of the darkness and despair they discovered after the Veil rose?

She looked across at the sleeping elf who had been responsible, and she tried to find some solace in the fact that she knew he could not read her mind. She could think whatever she wanted in the dark privacy of her thoughts and he would never know. Her bloodlust, her desire for revenge and retribution, as well as her longing. She could reach out and slip her hand into his, or stretch out her body beside him, or slit his throat and then her own. She was acquainted enough now with magick, the Fade, the Anchor, and _him_ , that she knew he was not a particularly powerful mage right now. How easy would it be for her to overpower him? Perhaps he would not even wake.

But that was a mercy she would not allow.

Whether it would have been a mercy for him, or for her, she did not want to contemplate.

-:-:-:-:-

When he woke at last, she had prepared a small meal and kept a fire going; night had fallen, and it had proved to be a chill one.

She looked up at him with heavy bags under her eyes and tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps you could tell me tomorrow,” she said, and yawned, as he approached.

“There is not much to tell,” he replied, and he folded himself down by the fire. “Go. I have monopolized your bed long enough.”

He had a mischievous glimmer in his eye that made her stomach turn in knots. She drew her thin canvas cloak around her and scurried to bed before he could see how her blush reached the tips of her ears.

She dreamed that she stood in the center of a valley, as riders on dark halla flecked with gold charged toward her. Wolves, likewise adorned with war paint, bounded along the flank of the Elvhen army, and on their mighty backs her ancestors sang a song of war and blood.

But she could not warn them of the dangers ahead, because they did not understand—and why would they listen to a quickling like her in the first place?

Ixchel stared down the six-eyed wolf that led the army, and she dared it to swallow her and the world that lay behind her.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel led her party out of the Hinterlands back across the Frostbacks to Haven and knew she would be back soon.

News of their endeavors had spread even further than Haven, however, and the world was already beginning to react. Representatives of the rebel Mages and the Templars had contacted Josephine with wary and distrustful inquiries about the Inquisition’s plans. Ixchel had argued with Cullen and Leliana both about their biases, and after a particularly heated bout, she forced them to watch her write two identical missives and send them off with ravens--one to Redcliffe, and one to Therinfal--before they could protest.

“This is not Halamshiral,” she snapped at Leliana, “and this is _not_ a Circle,” she reminded Cullen, who shrank back a little at her ire. “We will not lie, and we will not bully, our future allies. And I'm not interested in their bargains,” she told Josephine. “I am going to make them interested in _ours_."

-:-:-:-:-

Cassandra was the only one with grace enough not to try and sway her. The Seeker had already demonstrated that she understood and respected Ixchel’s plans, even if she did not always _agree_. She could see Ixchel’s heart, and it was a relief for the once-and-future-Inquisitor to know she had someone who would trust her motives with unflagging faith.

It rubbed her raw to feel the tension between herself and Cullen in the wake of their spat. She so dearly remembered the man who had sat at her bedside as she recovered from her encounter with the dragon and her dragonlings, who had read to her the war reports when she could not sit up to read them on her own, and who had helped her to rehabilitate her arm when the bandages came off at last.

He had carried her through the snow after the fall of Haven, had brought her the names of the lost and held her as she wept—and he had held her so often after that, when destiny had too much planned for her, when her faith in others was misplaced, when her faith in herself failed, and when the weight of leadership hung so heavily around her neck it threatened her very existence. He had held her when Solas left. Both times.

And he had never abandoned her, even when he saw the demons behind her eyes.

She did not sleep that night as she fingered the silent crystal around her neck and wondered how he had fared after she left him, left all of them, and left the living world behind. She held her crystal against her lips as she left her hut and wandered out past the guard post down to the frozen lake, where she could look up at the stars without obstruction from the smoke that rose from Haven’s bonfires.

Ixchel wondered what would happen if she rode out to the Korcari Wilds to find _Asha’bellanar._ Had she always held a piece of Mythal in her, or had the Evanuri come to her more recently? Would the witch-goddess perhaps know more about the cataclysmic magic that had brought Ixchel back from wherever souls went after death? What could Flemeth or Mythal tell her of Solas?

She thought of the Frostback Basin and the ancient Inquisitor trapped there. She longed to free him, to reunite him with the spirit of his lover in death’s embrace, but she knew she was no match for Hakkon as she was now—with so few allies, who were so inexperienced fighting dragons.

She marveled, slightly, at the idea that she knew of these so-called living gods and could seek them out, should she wish it. She pondered at the connection between them—dragons, both. She wondered what that meant about Archdemons…

Her musings were interrupted by a footfall in the snow behind her, and Ixchel jumped nearly out of her skin. She knew she would be dead if the steps belonged to an enemy. Fortunately, it was only Cullen.

She let her head fall forward into her hands. “Commander. You startled me.”

“Lady Herald—”

“I knew a Harold, Cullen, and he was no friend of mine,” she said, and she smirked at him even though she knew he was not in on the joke. “I would prefer you called me by the name I chose, and not the one that’s been thrust upon me.”

He tucked his mantle closer to his neck and blinked at her in the darkness. “You chose your own name?”

“I slept in a lot of ruins, growing up,” she explained, “and in such a place I found a word carved into the rock—probably graffiti, now that I reflect on it. But it was illuminated by a single beam of moonlight, and I thought it was so beautiful. I copied it down on my arm with wet ashes and asked the first traveler I came across to tell me how they thought it read.” She shrugged, smiling a little wider. “And I still thought it was pretty, so I claimed it for my own.”

“It is,” he said softly. “Pretty.”

She glanced at him mischievously out of the corner of her eye and saw his hand go for the hair at the nape of his neck, and she grinned. Some things, like his bashfulness, did not hurt her nearly as much as they comforted her for their constancy. “Thank you, Commander,” she said lightly. “I hope that means you’ll call me by it from now on.”

“Y-yes.” He cleared his throat. “May I join you, Ixchel?”

“I welcome the company.” Cullen came to sit on a rock near her, and he clasped his hands tightly in his lap before him. He seemed to be incapable of looking at her, and she clicked her tongue thoughtfully at that. “What keeps you out so late, Commander?” she asked. “It seems to have put you on edge.”

“What? Oh, no, it’s not…” He exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to intrude—but Cassandra told me that you had something…bothering you? Out in the field? She seemed to think I might be of some service.”

Ixchel closed her eyes and took in the sounds of the night around them. “I’ve heard some of the stories that were too nasty for Varric’s book,” she said in a very quiet voice. “I can’t imagine you managed to leave that all behind in Kirkwall. And I have not managed to leave my past life behind, either.”

Cullen seemed to drown in the silence just as she did.

“I don’t know how you can help,” she admitted.

“Neither do I.”

“Does Cassandra think I’m a risk?” she asked after another somber moment. “Because I have night terrors?”

“What risk? Of possession or the like?” He shook his head. “No… She may not have the same experience as we do, but she knows enough of…these matters. She is merely concerned for your—wellbeing. Happiness.” He twisted his fingers nervously. “They all are. We are, I mean.”

She sighed and leaned back, hands braced against the rock so she could more comfortably consider the stars above her. “I wish I could say you shouldn’t be. This is really hard.” And she balled her fists in fury at herself as her voice betrayed her, suddenly choked by tears.

“Even on the good days,” Cullen agreed, to her surprise.

They finally looked at each other, and Ixchel allowed herself to scrub her eyes of tears on the back of her hand. “You put on a brave face,” she told him mournfully. “It gets tiring, doesn’t it?”

He chewed at the corner of his lip and nodded. “It helps to know who you don’t need to pretend for,” he said.

“I can imagine.” She looked away. “I trust you, Cullen. But I’m afraid that if I start digging around and talking about all of this…”

“It’ll be the snowflake that starts the avalanche?”

She raised an eyebrow at the frozen lake in front of them and nodded. “Interesting analogy. But yes.”

“I wrestle with the very same fear, Ixchel. But I have found the precious few I trust to dig me out when I’m buried. It’s necessary, to survive.”

Ixchel’s breath frosted the air as she lost the ability to breathe. She looked at Cullen with wide, shining eyes and struggled to form thoughts, let alone words. He held her gaze for a moment longer, then looked back at the stars and allowed the silence between them to hold.

She did not break it, except for a small sniffle that she tried to hide in her sleeve.


	7. Chantry Leadership

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/16/20

Ixchel brought Cassandra and Lace with her to Val Royeaux and left her other companions in Haven. Traveling with the two women lifted her spirits more than anything had in—well, years—and she almost looked forward to their time in the Orlesian city.

It was easy to slip back into a friendship with Harding; even the first time they had met, the scout had acted like they were never strangers. Harding’s language was all wry jabs and politely-veiled gossip, and it had never really mattered if Ixchel knew the people involved, because Harding knew how to make even an account of the weather entertaining.

On the road, Cassandra and Ixchel led the band of Inquisition officers and guards from the front: Cassandra on her thoroughbred and Ixchel on the red hart that Dennet had sent her as a gift for her quick work protecting the Redcliffe farmers. Traveling like this with Cassandra made it easy to get the Seeker to let her guard down; Ixchel encouraged Cassandra to tell her all about _Swords & Shields_, and she even managed to get Cassandra to admit to some of the more romantic aspects of being a princess. Ixchel swore up and down to herself that she would not allow Josephine to dress them in such garish militaristic uniforms this time when they went to the Winter Palace. She wanted to see Cassandra in a dress if it was the last thing she did.

Upon arriving in Val Royeaux and after the trouble with the Lord Seeker and the Chantry sisters, Ixchel took the troubled Cassandra and shrewd Harding to her favorite bakery and introduced them to the delights of sweet cheese-filled pastries. In doing so, she avoided an encounter with the Red Jennies and Sera.

On their way out of the city walls that night, she received the invitation to Vivienne’s gala. It was clear Vivienne proved to want her attention more than the Red Jennies cared.

Ixchel dragged Cassandra along with her to the gala, despite the Seeker’s protests. ”You have a very important job, Cassandra,” she’d told the morose woman. “Collect _every_ cheese pastry you can find while I distract the bigots.”

-:-:-:-:-

Just as Cassandra understood and respected Ixchel, even when they disagreed, Ixchel had always felt a connection to the First Enchanter though their views on many topics were diametrically opposed. She told the beautiful woman as much, as they conferred by a moonlit window.

“I hold you in high esteem, my lady,” she assured Vivienne, “but allow me to step out of the Game for a moment. I do not claim the title of Herald, but I _do_ claim my stake in the moral leadership of the Inquisition. There are matters on which I will not compromise, and if we are to be allies, I would have you understand that.”

Vivienne tilted her chin up, though she looked down at the young woman who stood before her. “I do,” she said, “and I likewise understand that the Game is played out in court, not on the battlefield. At the moment, it seems the _world_ is our battlefield.” She leaned toward the party, signaling her desire to depart. “I will take you as you are, then, my dear, if you shall take me as I am.”

“Of course, my lady.”

With Vivienne’s assistance requisitioned and all the cheese pastries pocketed, Ixchel returned to Val Royeaux a final time to seek out some exotic mounts for Dennet’s stables—and, of course, to allow the former Grand Enchanter to catch her, if the timing was right.

She eyed Fiona distrustfully but let Cassandra take the lead in that conversation. She had little to say without knowing what response her message to the Templars had garnered, and Leliana had not forwarded any such developments to them while they were in Val Royeaux. Later, over lunch on the road, Cassandra marveled at the strangeness of the encounter. Ixchel instead thought of the cold, haunted interior of Redcliffe’s Chantry, and of the rift she knew would await her there—and the Tevinter mage who would soon swoop into her life for a second time.

Ixchel realized she had been scowling at her snacks so intensely that her eye had started to twitch, and she tried to school her features.

“I thought you liked the cheese pastries?” Cassandra asked.

-:-:-:-:-

When they reached Haven at last, Ixchel could hear the telltale roar of a mob behind its walls. Cassandra leaped off her mount and ran for the city gates, but Ixchel did not dismount. She urged her striped hart past the Seeker and galloped to meet the mob in front of the Chantry, where former Templars and disgruntled Mages faced each other down with accusations of treason. Cullen had already intervened, and Chancellor Roderick now prowled through the ranks of Inquisition soldiers to take up the squabble.

Ixchel trusted her hart not to trample anyone, and she hoped that her people had enough sense to dive out of the way anyway. She urged her hart through the masses and drove herself between the two factions.

“Silence!” she bellowed at the Commander and the Chancellor, and her hart joined her with a mournful scream of its own. “You claim we lack authority, Chancellor? You have had your opportunity to claim it, as a voice of the Chantry among the Inquisition’s leadership, and yet you rejected our offer! I don’t know where you stalked off to, but clearly in your meditations you have not witnessed _my_ authority. Here, I shall demonstrate.”

And she rounded the hart to face the ex-Templar who she knew to have instigated this fight. “You! You have no proof that a single Mage struck down the Divine. You are a fool not to remember Justinia’s mercy toward the Mages, and her sympathy for their complaints. Hush! And you!” She pointed threateningly at the Mage who had spat at the Templar with most vicious intent. “How dare you take advantage of that mercy, which we of the Inquisition have honored in Justinia’s memory!”

Her hart danced in the muddied snow as she looked around at the upturned faces of her infant Inquisition.

“Why are you all here? If I were to be honest, I would rather be across the Waking Sea right now, but I am not. I am here, with you, fighting to close t _he massive rift in the heavens_. I understand the role I have been given as bearer of this mark.”

She raised her fist as it began to flare violently in response to her emotions.

“But each of us, marked or not, has a role to fill in our quest. We must stand united to close the Breach. And Mage or Templar or whatever and whoever you might be, we must recognize the shared courage and hope that has led us all here—to the Temple of Sacred Ashes in search of peace, and now, to the Inquisition, to save the world. If we allow ourselves to be torn asunder by breaches of our own imagining, what hope does Thedas have against the one in the sky?”

She swept her eyes across the faces gathered around her, meeting each of their gazes with purpose. “There is one last point that must be made,” she said. “No one truly raises their tempers over matters they hold inconsequential. It is a testament to the fire in each of your hearts that we are gathered here—nearly all of Haven, at my count. No matter what you may personally believe, I am honored to be surrounded by people of such steadfast conviction. May we all remember to honor each others’ convictions, as we work together in the months to come.”

Ixchel drew her fist back sharply and brought it to her breast in the salute of the Inquisition, the same one she had given to her scouts in the Hinterlands after reclaiming the Crossroads in the Hinterlands. The sound of her small army moving as one to salute her in return filled her with grim satisfaction. She nodded.

“United we must stand, and the Breach will be closed,” she assured them.

And with that, her forces understood that they were dismissed.

Ixchel looked down at Roderick and Cullen from atop her high cheekbones as the crowd dispersed. “The Lord Seeker assaulted the Chantry leadership in Val Royeaux,” she said icily. “He punched a Sister in the _face_ in the middle of the market square. I offered the Inquisition’s aide to the Chantry in light of the Templar’s refusal to protect them…but you can imagine how that went. My Lord Chancellor, if you do not trust me, then trust Lady Pentaghast’s broken heart.” Ixchel jerked her chin to the stormy-faced Seeker who approached them through the breaking mob. “You are welcome to join our meeting to discuss these same matters. Half an hour, Commander?”

“As you say, Your Worship.”

Ixchel swung her hart around and had it jump over the stone barricades in the direction of the stables. She knew Roderick would not take her up on her offer to join their war council.

And so it was.

-:-:-:-:-

“I must admit,” Solas said, “the vision of a Dalish woman astride a great hart as she gives a rallying call to her banner… It is not like anything I have seen in my long journeys in the Fade.”

She was pleased that she did not visibly startle when he snuck up on her, and her hands continued the deft motions of polishing the greataxe in her lap. Somehow, she had known that it would not take him long to seek her out after her return from weeks on the road. She tried to tell herself that she did not _want_ him to have missed her, but she was afraid of the truth. And here he was, having approached her with the lightest of steps and a lilting, teasing note in his voice.

“Really? They say the People used to ride the halla. Would that not be a sight?”

“Indeed, it was,” he said with feeling.

“Then why are you laying on the flattery, _harellan?”_

He gave her a laugh for that as he walked around the stone wall she sat on, and when he turned again to face her, hands clasped behind his back, he had a good-natured smirk tilting at the corner of his mouth. His eyes sparkled at their hidden understanding; he clearly enjoyed this step she had made in their subtle dance.

She was more pleased than she should have been to have made him laugh, but whatever delight it gave her was soured with a specter of grief. Her hands stilled in her ministrations upon her blade, and she stared down at the reflection of dragonling scars and Dirthamen’s slave brand. She wanted so badly to tell him that she knew these truths and embraced them. She had taken the vallaslin onto her once-bare face as an act of defiance, a reclamation, in full knowledge of their sordid past. And she wanted more than anything for him to respect her for that decision, though she knew he never would.

She _wanted_ to imagine herself as a former slave, leading a righteous war to freedom. She wanted him to see her as a leader of many—rather than an exception, an idol alone in the field, as he had made her out to be in his own way once upon a time down the road.

She shook her head at herself, sending her long hair to shroud her face as though that would hide her from his appraising eyes. “You know what else was a sight? The First Enchanter, Madame de Fer… I can’t imagine she will arrive with all her finery in tow, but she was like a butterfly…or a dragon.” She sighed. “Everything about her shone, smoothed like a river stone after the tumble of court life.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy, _ma falon?”_

“It’s hard not to feel every bit the Dalish savage in her presence,” Ixchel admitted. She raised her shoulders to her ears. “From what you’ve told me of the People, I would appear just as primitive to them, too.”

A soft breath escaped Solas, but she did not look up at him, and he did not move to catch her gaze. She raised her shoulders higher and then let them fall again.

“If only I had known sooner to avoid dragonlings, I might have saved my prospects at court,” she said with a self-deprecating grin, and she returned to polishing her axe. “Ah, well. _Tel garas solasan._ There is more to life than beauty.” She shrugged. “Beware the Iron Lady, _ma falon_. Her Empress slaughtered the elves of Halamshiral and buried the evidence in ash.”

Solas at last drew closer, and he perched on the stone ledge she had taken up as her post. With one long leg outstretched and one folded, knee pressed to his chest, he tipped a little closer to consider her. She could feel the warmth of his body on her shoulder and side, like the last rays of a summer sun.

“Yet again, it is clear that you enter these fraught encounters with open eyes,” he said. “You comport yourself with a remarkable shrewdness.”

“Not wisdom?” she cocked an eyebrow at him. “I was going for wisdom.”

“I would give you that, as well.” He acquiesced with a dip of his head. “Is this what you learned, from the Dalish?”

“Living in the world is what opened my eyes, Solas.” She tightened her grip on the staff of her axe and narrowed her eyes at her reflection as she caught herself echoing something she had said to him before, in Skyhold, in another life. Then, she forced her hands to relax, and she looked up at Solas with a thin smile. “I would like to wash the taste of Val Royeaux from my mouth for a moment,” she said with finality. “Did you have a productive time here in Haven, _ma falon?_ Have the shards yielded their secrets to you?”

She was genuinely curious, for they had never done more than collect them during his years in the Inquisition; when he had left, he had left their library of strange shards with her. But without him, she had never had the desire to continue his research into their origin or their purpose.

He shook his head. “No, but our apothecary has recently expressed more interest in the medicinal knowledge I hold.” Again, he smiled at her, and her stomach twisted around itself at the sight. “The people of Haven have taken to their savage Dalish-Andrastian Herald with great enthusiasm.”

“You think so?” Ixchel turned to face him more fully and set the butt of her axe on the ground. “Even after berating them?”

Solas made a face. “Perhaps even more so after you have berated them as you did. You shone a light on the dark corners of their hearts in which they might hide themselves. You showed them that you see their biases and see past them. Nothing—” his voice turned dry “—less than the light of the Maker could have shown you this.”

She gave him an exaggerated gag. “People,” she said, “have so little faith in _people_. They believe compassion and kindness and justice are godly qualities—and in doing so, they decide that they, as mortals, are incapable of such virtues. And certainly their fellows are incapable, as well.”

That seemed to set Solas off balance a little. His pale eyes traced the lines on her face, and she stiffened under his scrutiny—braced for whatever he might ask her. “You have made it clear you are not Andrastian,” he observed, “and you wear the marks of the most faithful of the Dalish. Is that pantheon not the embodiment of what you describe: desirable traits set apart as gods?”

The tension in her shoulders eased a little. “The Dalish know their Creators fell. They are less gods and idols than they are parables, which makes them tangible, obtainable, and inherently Dalish. Note that the Maker was no man, and Andraste was set aside from the humans as his Bride. But,” she added, “I am not Dalish. Neither do I believe in gods. I believe in people.”

“So you have said.”

“Are you listening now?”

His head tilted, and for a moment he looked so much like a curious canine she felt like she might drown in the emotions that surged in her. But she held his gaze, earnest and longing for him to understand even while knowing that it would be against his nature to accept her belief. Solas, whose name meant Pride, held himself above all others in the extent of his virtue and the depth of his sins; how could he ever have faith in other living beings and their capabilities?

He had had faith in _her_ , but that had not been enough.

“I didn’t take these marks to honor Dirthamen,” she said at last. “A Keeper _asked_ me to take them, as an honor for something I did for our People. And I _accepted_ his offer to honor that Keeper, and the Dalish, who have recognized me as one of their own.”

Solas’s gaze was so intent that she questioned whether perhaps he really did possess the ability to read her mind. He seemed to be trying to draw the larger story out of her with his eyes alone. She had piqued his curiosity, and she felt her chest swell with fluttering excitement. If there was something he could admire her for, this would be it—even though they had fought so bitterly over her decision to take the vallaslin after it.

“I uncovered something about our People that the Chantry and the humans have done their best to hide. I restored some of our pride, by bringing that secret to light. I gave the Dalish, and modern elves in Thedas, one more connection to our honored past. I gave us one more reason to be proud of the blood in our veins, even when the world would cut off our ears if they could.”

 _“Arani,”_ Solas said gravely, and she could not help her grin. She was teasing him as surely as though she had stripped to her smalls in front of him, and he was enjoying it despite the severe look on his face.

“You mustn’t tell,” she said in a low voice.

_“Ixchel.”_

“So many heresies are about to leave my lips!” she whispered conspiratorially. “Not here. Walk with me, _ma falon.”_

And she scampered to her feet, hooked her axe across her back, and led him out of Haven to the lake. She walked quickly ahead of him—trying to put some distance between them to give herself time to think.

Because she knew she was making a mistake.

She was a decade older than she had been the last time she fell out of the Breach and joined the Inquisition. She was a decade more experienced, and she held so many secrets within her now. But she was still young in the eyes of so many. She would find it difficult to explain how she had discovered certain things, supposedly as a teenager on her own. And to Solas, who was older than even she could imagine? Who had been old even when the Dales fell? It would be even harder for her to satisfy any doubts he had.

But Ameridan weighed so sorely on her mind. The Inquisition weighed on her. The true history of her people—and a history that even Solas did not know—weighed on her. It pressed against her insides and she needed to spit it out to seek relief.

Solas strode behind her and quickly caught up, and they walked together to the edge of the lake. Ixchel launched herself onto the ice and skidded on the soft soles of her shoes, and Solas followed. She noted, curious, that he did not mind the ice on his toes, and she wondered if it were magic or monotonous biology.

She slid playfully away from him and made her way out to the center of the lake. Only then did she turn to Solas, but she rounded upon him so fast that she nearly lost her balance. Solas caught her by the left arm, fingers curled tightly around her bicep, and then he caught her right hand in his own. Her head smacked into his chest and she felt even more off-balance, because—for a terrible moment—she knew she was about to slip into a waking nightmare. As his hand slid lower on her left arm, she recalled the pain of the Anchor. She recalled the pain in her _soul_ as his magic ate at her from the inside. She recalled the pain when he had taken her arm, when he had last held her like this, when he had kissed her for the first time—

Ixchel forced herself to look up at him, to reinforce the reality of the moment she was in. He was real and not remembered; she had never seen his pale cheeks dusted like this with a blush of exertion, or his eyes so alight with good cheer. His smile bright in his face and turned upon her and her alone.

She centered herself on the sensation of his warmth against her, his silken hands on hers, and his breath on her upturned face.

And then she forced herself to pull away from him. His hand tightened briefly on hers as she slipped out of his grasp, but then he let her go.

Ixchel took a deep breath. “In a hidden corner of the Frostback Basin, I found traces of a history that had been untouched since the early days of Orlais, and the last days of the Dales. The human emperor had started an Inquisition. At its head, he placed a Seeker. What was removed from history and has become heresy today is this truth: the Inquisitor was a _mage_. Not only that…he was an elf of the Dales.”

Solas’s eyebrows shot up, but she hurried to continue before he could comment.

“The Inquisitor was a son of Halamshiral, perhaps one of the last. He honored the Creators, and his lover was a Dreamer. But he also followed the Maker, and he was himself a companion to the emperor of Orlais. When a Blight struck the Anderfels and a _second_ dragon-god appeared in the Frostback Basin, the Inquisitor went to fight the dragon, and the emperor went to fight the Archdemon. The Inquisitor’s companions perished, and the Inquisitor went to face their enemy alone—and never returned. It was because of his sacrifice that Thedas did not become overwhelmed by a Blight and a god of war all at once.”

She ran a hand through her hair, then down her face, tracing the ink that marked her efforts to find her kin, to uncover their secrets, to hold their lore.

“This Inquisitor was a symbol of friendship between the elves and humans. He was a hero to all of Thedas. I, _half-blood_ as I am, carried his memory, and I brought it home to his people. And though I found this secret, I must keep it a secret, too,” she said, softening her voice, “because to live our history—to teach it—to be _proud_ to be an elf—is a sin punishable by death.”


	8. Finding Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/16/20

Solas’s face, which for a moment had been so open to her, suddenly became inscrutable. His eyes followed the motion of her fingers as she traced Dirthamen’s crown, then fell to rest on her mouth, where she let her finger rest as though to hush herself. She recognized the object of his attention, though she could not guess at his intentions. It had always hurt to know how he wanted her, how he so knowingly considered acting upon it, and how he held himself back.

She dropped her gaze from his face and focused on the slow rise and fall of his chest before her.

And then she saw him stir, and he reached for the hand that held the Anchor. With his long, deft fingers, he traced the ragged edges of it around her palm. “How can a woman, so privileged to uncover such a secret, be marked and lifted up—without believing in the gods? How can she not believe it to be fate?”

“A woman,” she replied softly, “needs hope to survive. What have the gods ever done to give us hope? What freedom can there be in fate?”

She curled her hand around his so slowly, so carefully, that he had every chance to pull away. But he did not.

“Such a delicate thing to trust to mortal hands,” he murmured. “Hope.”

Ixchel closed her eyes, with his mortal hand held in hers.

_Var lath vir suledin._

_I wish it could, vhenan._

“I know,” she said.

-:-:-:-:-

They held hands as they picked their way back across the ice in the direction of Haven. Ixchel knew, as the banks approached, that once they crossed that boundary in the landscape, Solas would reconsider this boundary in their relationship. She could not say how she knew it, but she did, and she knew that he was right.

So she allowed herself to enjoy the warmth of his palm against hers, and the whisper of his sweater against her shoulder, and the way her hair clung to him with static electricity. She had the urge to tuck herself against his side, her head against his chest. She was such a comfortable size, and he for her.

She did not follow the urge.

When they reached the edge of the lake, Solas did slip out of her grasp. “Ixchel,” he said, and there was a deep note of regret and hesitation in his voice.

“Just… _Ma melava halani, Solas,”_ she said. _“Tel’abelas.”_ But she offered him a small, tired smile of understanding.

That only seemed to trouble him more, and his eyes remained upon her even after she excused herself for the night.

-:-:-:-:-

She lay curled in her bed, Dorian’s crystal clutched over her hammering heart, until she lost track of time. She was so tired that she did not recall falling into the Fade, but she knew she had when she saw Bull.

He was laying beneath her, her axe embedded in his skull between the horns. She was screaming, a war cry that had turned into the sound of heartbreak. Her own blood choked her, splattered down on her grasping hands, on Bull’s broken face. Her mouth tasted of deathroot.

But this was not the way it had happened.

She had not been the one to strike him down. And the deathroot—she had not bled from the mouth like this. It had been so much gentler. That was why she had chosen it.

This was not real.

With all the strength she could muster, she focused on the glow of the Anchor in her hand, on the pain of it. She focused on it until her arm faded away to the elbow.

There. Real.

Except that wasn’t right, either. Not anymore.

“Your hand hurt,” Cole said, but she could not see him. “A heartbeat. Not yours. Cutting it off, cutting it out, but still you held it.”

She was breathing so heavily her chest hurt. “Cole?” she called. “Where are you?”

“You meant to say, ‘when,’ but I don’t understand… Soon, but maybe not soon enough. It wants you to be afraid, but it hasn’t heard you yet. You can’t let it hear you scream. You can’t. Not yet.”

And Ixchel opened her eyes to find that the pain in her chest was from the crystal digging in to her skin, and the thing that had choked her was the cord around her neck.

She rolled on to her back and breathed deeply. Another mistake she would not allow herself to make again.

 _None of this is fated,_ she told herself. _And none of it matters._

Tears streaked down the sides of her face and into her hair.

_But if they must die, I would rather they die in comfort._

She owed them, for all of her mistakes. For what she had done, and what she had failed to do.

-:-:-:-:-

As soon as she saw Krem standing almost shyly outside the Chantry door, she stopped dead in her tracks. “You… You…”

Krem blinked at her nervously, and she saw his guard immediately go up. She flailed internally to remember that she was not looking at a ghost. Well, no more of a ghost than she was. “Sorry, can I help you, ser?”

As soon as he had finished his speech, Ixchel clapped her hand to her chest. “I’ve heard of The Iron Bull and his Chargers. If you want a trial run, I’ll have Josephine get a relocation package ready for you all, as well as a generous lump sum up front. I need mercs for an expedition I’m taking.” She offered him a savage smile. “Having the best muscle in southern Thedas at my back will sure send a message to the Tevinter thug I have in mind. No offense, ser.”

Krem gave a barking laugh. “I’m sure they deserve it,” he drawled. “When and where, Herald?”

She took Krem’s extended hand and shook it firmly. “It’s Ixchel,” she said. “I knew a Harold. Right bastard.”

-:-:-:-:-

“Cassandra, I would have you and Josephine go to Therinfal ahead of me. Tell them that the Mages would have to kill me if they wanted me to accept their terms before I met with the Templars. I’m not going to just _not_ stop in Redcliffe on my way to eastern Ferelden. Cullen, I would send you if we hadn’t just received all those recruits last week.”

Ixchel gave the Commander an apologetic look as she moved markers on the map and charted their forward path. Neither of them commented on the fact that the other wore deep bruises underneath their eyes. Cullen bowed his head in understanding.

“Remember,” she said, echoing something Leliana had said earlier in their conversation, “the Breach will not wait for our differences to settle.”

“Then you will be taking only Varric and Solas with you to Redcliffe?” Cassandra seemed uneasy, though she had been pleased with the compromise Ixchel had come up with.

“Oh, that’s right!” Josephine brightened. “We have received word from the mercenary company, the Chargers. They are on track to meet you at the primary Inquisition camp in the Hinterlands. Then, should you like their performance, they can accompany you to Therinfal.”

“Should _we_ like their performance,” Ixchel demurred, but she felt disingenuous.

“How can we be certain they will not turn on you? Perhaps they have been hired by a nefarious third party?” Cassandra asked.

“Fourth party,” Cullen amended.

Ixchel gave him a weary smile. “We can’t be,” she agreed, “but I’m confident that Solas and Varric and I can run away _very_ fast. Each of us has been running all our lives, haven't we?”

-:-:-:-:-

And thus it was that Ixchel found herself returning to Redcliffe.

Sort of.

She led Solas and Varric on a search for the man going by Blackwall—found him, convinced him to join their ranks, and then sent him on to rendezvous with Cullen in Haven, because she regretted leaving him behind. She gathered more medicinal herbs, picked flowers for a memorial, paid tribute to a spirit in a lake, and destroyed one new red lyrium deposit.

“What are you afraid of, Ixchel?" Solas asked her eventually. She knew it was so clear that she was running from something; she had hardly slept since they arrived three days prior, and she was running out of tasks to keep her on the southern side of the valley. After finding a few more shards, she really had no excuse not to go to Redcliffe.

“Dying alone,” she said immediately.

Varric almost choked on his morning coffee.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he muttered.

She gave him a dour look, deliberately avoiding Solas’s gaze. “I know, I know. I just have a bad feeling.”

“About this Qunari mercenary?” Solas asked.

“No,” she said, and did not elaborate. “But you’re right. Let’s go.”

-:-:-:-:-

She changed into the armor she had worn when she fell out of the Fade: deep blue silk brocades, luxurious white leather, and striking gold dragon bone had made this her favored statement piece. Ixchel never felt more feminine, nor more powerful, than when she wore this armor she had crafted in the Undercroft. But it was heavy, and she did not wear it often.

She had not worn it at all since she had stabilized the Breach. Partly, she had not wanted anyone to ask her how she had come by it; in the fraught chaos of that long day, no one had paid much attention to how a random Dalish woman would come to have such strange and finely crafted armor. It was not Dalish in the least. But no one had thought to ask, and she had not given them the opportunity to remember that they should.

Now, she struggled into the armor not because it was physically challenging or particularly complicated, but because it reminded her of too many terrible things.

It was likely they had been about to bury her in it, for one.

“Might I assist?”

Ixchel closed her eyes as Solas picked up the white cuirass from where she had set it out against a log. _“Ma serannas,”_ she sighed.

He slipped behind her and passed the cuirass under her arms, to her front, and then around again, and he began to buckle it snugly along the back. “This is a master work,” he murmured. “There is magic in its seams.”

“I have been very fortunate,” she said. “I befriended a powerful arcanist, and a great blacksmith.”

“I do not think our Iron Lady has such fine craftsmen at her service.”

She went still as his knuckles pressed in to the small of her back and he tucked the last buckle safely underneath a cover. She hardly dared to breathe as he picked up her pauldrons and hooked them behind her shoulder blades. The leather whispered as they hung loose, and then he came around to her front to adjust them. He kept his eyes schooled firmly on his work as he threaded belts into place and snapped them tight. Then his fingers strayed lower, to the chains that connected the pauldrons, and he made sure they were anchored to the—mostly ornamental—gorget where it rested on her chest.

Ixhel wouldn’t have been surprised if he could feel her heart racing even through the many layers that separated his fingers from her skin.

She looked up at him, breathless and wide-eyed at his flirtation, and she felt her ear twitch despite herself; the tip of it got caught in her loose hair.

Solas’s face was a mask painted with only the faintest trace of amusement. He finished his work, then reached up to brush her hair back behind her ears; then his lithe, lily-white fingers traced the edge of her ear as it twitched again, and he followed the line of it back to her cheek.

Her cheek which was on _fire_ beneath the light golden lines of Dirthamen’s brand.

“Very fortunate,” he echoed, and then he left her swaying in her armor.

-:-:-:-:-

“Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now, but hasn’t yet arrived. He’s expected shortly.”

Ixchel nodded at the elven slave shortly. When he had turned to leave, she glanced at Solas’s stormy face.  
_We wear our vallaslin and say, ‘Never again shall we submit..’ The bare-faced grovel at the feet of their oppressors and say, ‘again, master, again.’_

Solas saw the distaste on her face and made a disgusted sound, but she kept her full comments to herself.

“Grand Enchanter,” Ixchel said as she strode into the emptied tavern. “It seems the Free Mages spurned their luxurious Circles for the grueling bondage of Tevinter.” She tutted at Fiona disapprovingly. “We are children of slaves, Fiona. They marched from Tevinter to the Dales to ensure that we would never know bondage again. It is inconceivable to me that the leader of the _Free_ Mages would submit—or that your forces would hold up their staffs for the Imperium.”

“Andraste’s ass,” Varric swore. “The _Imperium?_ Yeah, I’ve got nothing on that.”

“I understand that you are afraid, but you deserve better than slavery to the Imperium,” Solas said sternly.

“As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”

“These are not negotiations,” Ixchel said. “I came here to offer you freedom among the ranks of the Inquisition, Grand Enchanter. If you submitted to this Magister because you did not believe me honest—then more’s the tragedy. Ah, is this the bloody hand that holds your leash?”

Ixchel crossed her arms as Alexius entered. “Forgive me for not greeting you earlier,” he purred.

“Arl Teagan did not abandon his lands during the Blight, even when they were under siege. Where is he now?”

“There were…tensions.”

The word hung menacingly in the air, despite the magister’s velveteen voice. Ixchel’s eyes traveled to Felix, whose gaunt face floated uncertainly over his father’s shoulder.

“Do you truly want to close the Breach?” she asked, looking back to his father. “The Chantry claims that the Magisterium carries the grave sin of attempting to enter the Fade. Do you not take after your kinsmen?”

“I was under the impression that you do not consider yourself the Herald of Andraste,” Alexius replied.

“I do not.” Ixchel shifted her weight to her opposite side and arched an eyebrow. “But I walked out of the Fade, Alexius. I understand there are powerful magicks afoot. And I understand enough of men to know that I do not trust their ambitions.” She inclined her head thoughtfully. “If only Cassandra were here, Varric. Perhaps it was not our Mages nor our Templars who caused the Breach. Perhaps it was a Magister. Why didn’t Roderick think of that?”

“Sunshine,” Varric said softly. A warning.

“Forgive me.” Ixchel waved a hand without uncrossing her arms. “I’m frustrated that I was surpassed, Alexius. But if you are willing to lay out your terms for a proposed cooperation, I am willing to listen.”

“As you say,” Alexius said. “Felix—ah, where are my manners. My lady, this is my son Felix. Would you fetch a scribe, boy? We will need to record this moment in history.”

Felix bowed and marched off, but not before he caught Ixchel’s eye again.

Alexius’s slimy calm unnerved Ixchel even more than it had the first time she had encountered him. She recognized that her nerves were on edge because she knew what was coming—the Blighted future, and Dorian—and her anger at _fate_ for bringing her here, putting her through this torture again, was truly directed at _Dorian_. Perhaps, she thought as Alexius drawled on and on, Dorian was her one god.

She dug her fingers into her knees under the table as she tried not to scream in rage.

Felix fell into her unexpectedly, though she knew this had happened before, as well, and she felt the weight of his note press into her pocket. Alexius urged him away and excused himself.

“He passed you something,” Solas observed under his breath. “The son.”

“Even _I_ saw that,” Varric muttered.

“You’d think, given how ruthless the Imperium’s Magisterium is, they would be better at this game.” Ixchel chuckled and unfolded the note. “Ah. We’re in danger. _News_ to _me.”_

“That’s all?” Varric asked.

“Oh, no. There’s a rendezvous.” She waved the note at Solas, and with a glance he summoned the magic to send it up in flames. “Let us meet our friend at the Chantry, then. We’ll fetch the Chargers afteward."

-:-:-:-:-

“Good! You’re finally here! Now help me close this, would you?”

Ixchel stood frozen at the door of the Chantry for so long that Varric eventually had to give her a nudge.

“What, is the supposed Herald of Andraste struck dumb at my godly visage?” Dorian scoffed. “Come now! Another wave—”

And another pulse of the Rift sent five demons flying out into the Chantry, and Ixchel moved more out of habit than with any real conscious thought. In a few moments, she and her companions had subdued the Rift enough for her to seal it shut.

Dorian, dressed in white and fine leather, his manicured brow knit together with suspicion and fascination, turned to her in the aftermath.

“Curious. How does that work, exactly?” Before she could answer, he chuckled. “You don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers, and Boom! Rift closes.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, my friend,” Ixchel said, and her voice trembled. “Introductions are in order, perhaps?”

“Ah! Getting ahead of myself again. Dorian of House Pavus,” he said, bowing. “Most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“I’ve been better,” she said. When had her voice ever been so high?

“Suspicious, are we?” he mused. _“‘Another Vint!’_ I can see it on your face. Magister Alexius was once my mentor, so my assistance should be valuable—as I’m sure you can imagine.” His brows drew together again and he pursed his lips below his curled mustache. “All right. Let’s say this once. I’m a mage from Tevinter, but not a member of the Magisterium. I know southerners use the terms interchangeably, but that only makes you sound like barbarians.”

“We know that we are in danger,” Solas said from over her shoulder. “We did not need a note to notice that.”

“Ah, I didn’t mean to accuse you of being _stupid_ barbarians. I have more valuable information, of course. Let’s start with Alexius claiming the allegiance of the rebel Mages out from under you. As if by magic, yes? Which is exactly right. The Grand Enchanter did reach out to you in Val Royeaux. But Alexius heard of this, and he distorted time itself so that he reached the Grand Enchanter with his offer before she ever went to Val Royeaux—and I would bet _gold_ that if you asked, Fiona would earnestly believe that she has _never_ seen you before today.”

“I hope that’s less dangerous than it sounds.”

“More,” Dorian retorted.

“That is fascinating, if true,” Solas said. “And almost certainly dangerous.”

“The rift you closed here? You saw how it twisted time around itself: sped some things up, slowed others down. Soon, there will be more like it, and they’ll appear further and further away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the _world.”_

“What else do you know about this magic?” Solas asked, and she was glad to cede the conversation to the mages for now.

It was so hard for Ixchel to look Dorian in the eye, to see how earnest and optimistic he was behind that proud visage, and know that he had capitalized on an unraveling world to do the unthinkable. The _impossible_.

Ixchel did not know enough about magic to understand how it was possible for her to stand between the two men who had decided so much of her fate, whose magicks were so intimately woven into the fiber of her being—Fen’Harel’s mark in her arm, and Dorian’s magick gluing the seams of her soul together after dragging her out of the depths of death. By all reasoning, the world should have been falling apart around her at the very moment by the sheer resonance of powers within her.

But no. The world continued falling apart _normally_.

Felix appeared to tell them about the Venatori cult, and how fixated Alexius was on the mark in her hand. She waved a hand at them all. “I’m flattered,” she said sarcastically. “Someone should tell him he didn’t need to rip a hole in time to catch my attention. There’s already a hole in the sky.”

Dorian grinned at her with such unbridled affection she wanted to throw up. Or stab him. Or stab herself.

“You know you’re his target. Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I want to keep it that way for now.”

“As soon as we can get an audience with him, I want you there, Pavus,” Ixchel said. “Let me consult with my people and send word to Alexius.”

As Dorian departed, he called over his shoulder to Felix: “Don’t get yourself killed, would you?”

“There are worse things than death, Dorian,” he responded.

As soon as the men were gone, Ixchel ran to the nearest urn and emptied her stomach into it.

* * *


	9. Redcliffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/16/20

* * *

“Should we not wait for reinforcements?” Harding asked, and it was perhaps the first time Ixchel had ever heard doubt in Lace’s voice. “Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It’s handled thousands of assaults from bigger armies.”

“An Orlesain Inquisition’s army marching on a Ferelden town—that could provoke a war, _ma falon_ ,” said Solas.

“Not to mention, if he kills you, no telling what happens to our only way of stitching up the sky. You know,” Varric mused, “if you were funnier, I might call you Stitches.”

“Sunshine, Light of the Maker, Herald of Andraste.” Ixchel skirted by him and placed her hands comfortingly on his shoulders as she passed. “It’s so _thematic_ , Varric. Wouldn’t have it any other way. But Stitches is a good one.”

She reached Harding and handed her the letter she had been writing for Leliana.

“We don’t need an army,” Ixchel said. “We’ll be smart about this, and Cullen doesn’t have to know.” She clapped Lace on the shoulder and turned to face Bull, Krem, and the Chargers. “Have your ghosts found another way inside?”

“Aye,” said Dalish. “There is a secret passage under the castle. Surely an escape route for women and children—not that there’s any left of those now.”

“It helps when they’re asked to leave nicely. Wonder if it’ll catch on with other warlords.” Ixchel nodded approvingly at Dalish. “I want The Iron Bull watching my back, but if you approve, we should send the Chargers through the tunnels. While they’re all distracted by my charming personality, the Magisters and their agents will be ripe for some throat cutting.”

“Ah, but you’ll never be able to slip past Alexius’s wards without my help,” said a voice, and Dorian strode into their camp looking ever the returning hero. “I saw the messenger leaving Redcliffe and figured that you managed to charm Alexius into activating his trap early. If you’re facing him, I must be there.”

“Watch yourself,” Bull growled. “The pretty ones are always the worst.”

Dorian preened.

She recognized that all of her allies were staring at her in surprise and doubt as Dorian spoke to her so irreverently. She straightened herself to her full height and crossed her arms. “Dalish,” she said, “I know our elvhen talents are almost as good as the shem magicks. Why don’t you confer with Dorian here about the wards and see what you can do?”

Dalish offered her a lop-sided grin as the rest of the Chargers allowed themselves to laugh, though they were clearly unsettled by the presence of a Tevinter mage in their midst. “We were in fact offered an audience, Dorian. Help our crew, and stay hidden. But when push comes to shove, I need you there to help me rip that smug smile off Alexius’s face. You hear me?”

He cocked one eyebrow at her. “Loud and clear, _Herald_ ,” he said.

And because she was in front of the Inquisition scouts, Ixchel had to keep her usual response bitten back behind her teeth.

-:-:-:-:-

She stood her ground when the Magisters tried to get Varric, Solas, and Bull to leave her, and as soon as she was announced to Alexius, he began prancing about as though he had already won.

“My friend, it is so good to see you again,” he purred.

“Are the mages to have no say in this discussion of their fate?” she asked, before Fiona could move from her spot. She did not want anyone else being pulled into the range of the time rift if she could help it.

“Fiona would not have turned her followers over to my care if she did not trust me with their lives,” he said oh-so-graciously. “Isn’t that right?”

Fiona’s fists clenched at her side.

“Before I learned of your partnership, I had intended to make the Grand Enchanter a guest of the Inquisition,” Ixchel said. “Let me extend that honor, belated though it might be. I’d like her input.”

“Thank you,” Fiona said quickly.

That did not please Alexius, who returned to his wooden throne, Felix at his side. When he turned back to her, his face was stony. “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them. What shall you offer?”

“Ah, but you have been misinformed.” Ixchel strolled a little closer, until the fires behind Alexius glinted on her golden dragon bone adornments and reflected their lights into the Magister’s sour face. “I do not come to the Free Mages because I _require_ their help to close the Breach. I came to offer them a _chance_ to help, so that they could prove to the Chantry and the Templars that their freedom from the Circles does not mean that they have turned their backs on Thedas. I came to offer them the Inquisition’s protection in the bargaining that will surely follow, when this threat to the world has been put to rest.

Solas’s armor hissed as he shifted his weight to his other foot, the only sign of his surprise. Once again, she had surprised him. Varric was more open with his disbelief.

“So _that’s_ why you didn’t want the Seeker here.”

Ixchel ignored him and gave Fiona a lingering, hard look. The Grand Enchanter’s jaw clenched. She seemed on the verge of breaking her composure, so Ixchel allowed her gaze to return to Alexius.

“Since they have sold themselves to bondage, that matter seems to be a moot point. I’d much rather discuss your time magic, Alexius.”

“Why, I have no idea what you might mean.”

“She knows everything, Father.”

“Felix. What have you _done!”_

“Your son is concerned you are involved with something terrible,” Ixchel said gently. “He has a legendary heart, to be capable of loving a monster like you.” Her voice fell cold at the end, and Felix made a pained sound.

“Do you think you can turn my son against me?” Alexius scoffed. “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark—a gift you don’t even understand—and you think you’re in control?”

“And _you_ understand it?” Ixchel shot back.

“You’re nothing but a mistake!”

“What was the Breach actually supposed to accomplish, then?” Ixchel took another step forward. “Entry to the Fade?”

“It was meant to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One—for the world!” Alexius raised his hands, fists shaking.

“Father, listen to yourself!” Felix pleaded. “Do you know what you sound like?”

“He sounds exactly like the villainous cliche everyone expects us to be,” Dorian growled, and he waltzed out of the shadows to join Ixchel.

“Dorian,” Alexius warned. “I gave you a chance to be part of this. It is too late. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

“You speak of him like he is already a god,” Ixchel said. “What has he done to prove that, besides _fucking up_ so royally at the Conclave?”

“He will make the world bow to mages once more!” Alexius insisted. “We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.”

“You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona cried.

“Alexius,” Dorian said gently, “this is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen! Why would you support him?”

“Has he shown any ability to cure Felix?” Ixchel prodded. “Has he done anything except sow more death and destruction, Alexius?”

“Father,” Felix pleaded, more ardently than Ixchel could recall. “Father, give up the Venatori. Let the southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home.”

“It’s the only way, Felix!” Alexius hissed. “It’s the _only_ way. He can save you!”

Something in Ixchel cracked at the sight of Alexiu’s pain, so clearly written across his face as he turned to look at his son, and she found herself turning her back to the scene. She could vividly recall the Magister’s despair after Felix’s death, and she felt it chilling her blood even in its echo.

Hope was such a dangerous thing to trust to mortal hands—either by placing it in another’s, or holding it in one’s own.

She looked at Solas, and with her heart in her throat she wished suddenly to flee.

“There is a way,” Alexius murmured. “The Elder One promised me. If only I can undo the mistake at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“I’m going to die. You need to accept that.”

“Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this woman’s life!”

But the Venatori fell, almost as one; in their place, the Chargers held bloody daggers.

“Congratulations, Alexius,” Ixchel said bitterly, her eyes still on Solas. “You followed in your master’s footsteps. Yet another miscalculation—”

“Your _existence_ is a mistake!” Alexius shrieked. “One that I will undo now!”

She hadn’t seen the rift coming with her back turned, but she saw its green light spasm across Solas’s face along with his panic. She did not have time to brace herself for its pull, and as Dorian shouted, she called out to Solas—and then they were gone.

 _“Blood_ of the Elder One!”

“Where’d they come from?”

Ixchel didn’t have a second to catch her breath before swords were being waved in her face She quickly removed them by liberating the arms that held them from their bearers’ bodies.

“It’s probably not what Alexius intended. The Rift must have moved us…to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?”

Ixchel cried out as the mark flared in her palm. This time, it was not a phantom pain but rather a true pulse. “This…this means the Breach has become unstable again,” she panted as Dorian picked her up off the flooded ground. “That can’t have happened so suddenly.”

“Then that means it’s not a question of where we are,” Dorian said, “it’s _when!_ You’ve seen his temporal rifts before. This time, we passed through one. Fascinating!”

Ixchel kept her eyes on the Anchor as it twinkled at her menacingly. She could feel it ripping at her body, pulling her toward the sky torn asunder.

“Let’s look around, see where the rift took us. Then we can figure out how to get back, if we can.”

Ixchel nodded silently, and they picked their way carefully through the submerged bones and bodies in the flooded cellblock.

“It seemed he was intending to remove you completely from time,” Dorian said thoughtfully. “If you had never been at the Conclave, then the Elder One might have succeeded at…whatever he had planned. I wonder what that could be.”

“I have a feeling we’re going to find out,” Ixchel said, and she kept her voice clipped. Had Dorian always talked so much? Perhaps she hadn’t minded it as much when she didn't hate him.

“Oh, it’s probably the same old, _‘Let’s play with magic we don’t understand! It will make us immensely powerful!’”_

“Dorian,” she warned, “I’ll hear your thoughts on time magic some other time. After we’ve returned to our own, perhaps?”

“They’re lovely thoughts,” he offered. “Like little jewels.” She rolled her eyes in disgust and led the way, trying not to act like she knew where she was going. “You’re astonishingly brave, marching through this place with no hint of stealth,” Dorian said, but he pitched his voice low as though he at least was not keen to be detected.

“Not brave. Efficient.” She jerked a hand out to point at a red lyrium deposit. “Follow the ominous aura, find the ominous evil doer. Come—”

But she had caught sight of another spire of lyrium that was topped with the torso of the former Grand Enchanter. Ixchel had seen enough of this in her journeys, but it never got any less sickening. Once the lyrium had claimed a victim’s stomach, the process went much faster. Soon, Fiona would be nothing more than a column of the Blighted stuff.

“You’re…alive! I saw…you…disappear…into the rift?”

“Time magic,” Ixchel grunted.

“Can you tell us the date?” Dorian drew closer to Ixchel, and she had to fight every traitorous instinct of hers that told her to find comfort in it. She carefully took a step away. “It’s very important!”

“Harvestmere…9:42 Dragon.”

“Then we’ve missed an entire year!”

“And everyone has suffered in the meantime.” Ixchel pounded her fist against the wall. The churn of hurt and anger in her was almost too much to contain. “We must stop this from happening.”

“The Elder One…more powerful than the Maker… No one…challenges him and lives.”

“Then it is good that I do not serve the Maker,” Ixchel spat. “I am an elf, and I know that gods can die. This Elder One shall do the same. Come.”

“Your spymaster—Leliana—she is here,” Fiona hissed as they departed. “Find her! You must find her!”

-:-:-:-:-

“Andraste’s sacred _knickers!”_ Varric’s voice was more haunted with the lyrium than Ixchel had hoped, and acid burned the roof of her mouth as she fought not to wretch or cry. “You’re alive! Where were you? How did you escape?”

“We didn’t,” Dorian replied. “We were sent into this future. It was but a moment for us—and, it seems, a year for you.”

“Everything that happens to you is weird, Sunshine,” Varric said with a chuckle as Ixchel helped him to his feet. Then, she threw her arms around him and held him tight. Her jaw worked to find the shape of the right words, but she had so much she wanted to apologize for—and none of it would make sense. She pressed her face into his shoulder and shook, and he held her steady.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last.

“It was a pretty shitty year,” he agreed. “Alexius’s Elder One assassinated the Empress and led a demon army in a huge invasion of the south. He rules everything—what’s left of it, anyway. I don’t know how, but I’m sure he’ll have noticed your reappearance on the face of Thedas.”

“You all speak of him like he truly is a god,” Dorian said disbelievingly.

Ixchel couldn’t summon the bluster to respond. She reluctantly let go of Varric and handed him the daggers she had found as they scavenged Venatori corpses. “I don’t know where she is,” she apologized.

“Ah, Bianca?” Varric sighed. “I do. Burned her in front of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Ixchel said again.

Dorian explained his plan to Varric, but Ixchel wasn’t listening. She knew who she would find next, and she was fighting to have any coherent thoughts over the ringing in her ears. She knew that, for all she regretted, for all she resented, having to do this again—this was an opportunity she would be a fool to pass up. A chance to question a weakened, doomed Fen’Harel? A chance to confront him about his plans, to pick his brain, to perhaps sway him into outwitting himself for her?

A chance to unburden her heart, to spit out the poison she had swallowed into it?

But her brain was filled only with the roar of her fear, her pain, her despair. She could hear Dorian and Varric bantering behind her as though they were old friends, but she could not _hear_ it. Nothing penetrated her thoughts except the sight, in her mind’s eye, of the door she would soon open—and the man she would find inside.

“Sunshine?” Varric asked softly, but it was his touch on her arm that jolted her back to the terrible present. “Something wrong? I mean, something else?”

“Varric, you’ve always been so good to me,” she said, her voice distorted as she fought back tears. “I’m just…”

“Hey,” he said in a soothing manner, but the lyrium that laced his voice undid it all. “It wasn’t your fault. And you’re gonna go back and make sure it never happens, right?”

“But it _happened_ ,” she said bitterly. “To _you.”_

“Then don’t think of me as me,” he suggested.

“Don’t,” she warned. “I can’t.”

He tightened his grip on her arm and stopped her fully. “You’re going to have to take this future back with you and carry its weight, I get it. You’ll need to if you’re going to stop the Empress’s assassination and stick it to this Elder One. But you can’t carry our ghosts with you like we’re already dead, Sunshine.”

She could feel the hot tears cut through the blood and grime on her cheeks, and she could find no response for him. Because they all _were_ , and they all _would be._

Again and again and again.

-:-:-:-:-

She found Solas, and she did not allow herself to look at Dorian, or at Varric, when she said, “I need a moment.” She kept her eyes on Solas, languishing in his cell, and she struggled to keep her voice even. Neither Dorian nor Varric questioned her; Dorian bowed graciously and closed the door behind him.

“A _private_ moment,” she said through the door, and she heard their sloshing footsteps back away.

Solas stared at her openly, and she could not tear her eyes away from his. They should have been blue. _They should have been blue._ She had seen the raw power in them swirl like pure lyrium—blue, blue, blue. Instead, he reeked of the Blight, and in his eyes she saw the six-eyed shadow that haunted her dreams.

“I saw you die,” Solas croaked. “There was nothing left but ash.”

In a voice that was so much lighter than she felt, she said, “Time magic. We find Alexius and get his amulet, Dorian and I will pop back out of a rift just a moment after we disappeared, and none of this will come to pass. You’re just the unlucky iteration that had to live for a year in the meantime.”

He pressed his head against the bars of his cell. “Unlucky,” he repeated disbelievingly. “You know _nothing_ of this world—”

“Oh, I _know_ , Solas.” She still stood in the doorway. Her feet were incapable of moving toward him to let him out of his prison. She was barely able to breathe in the thick, lyrium-clouded air. “Corypheus, demon army, enslaved Mages, Red Templars, an assassinated Empress.” She kicked at the water on the ground. “And you, powerless to stop any of it at all.” She kicked at the water again, more forcefully. The things that had cracked inside here were struggling to contain the swell of emotions in her, and she knew she was about to burst.

“Solas, I—”

She knew she needed to stay calm, to question him, to _implore_ him, but she was so angry and _tired_. She slammed the side of her fist into the wall and hung her head near it.

“I _don’t_ understand why would you want to send me back? Your plan for the world is just as bad as this! Is it jealousy I detect, _lethallin?”_ She curled her lip and glared at the wall. “Jealous that all of this is not by your hand?"

Solas had remained silent as he took in her distress, and she hated him for it. Ixchel recalled the words of the Nightmare, and she tossed them down at Solas’s feet now: _“Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”_

Ixchel turned toward him and stalked forward, even as he stared at her with his red lyrium eyes.

“You knew this would happen,” Solas said raggedly. “But you still allowed it to pass.”

“I had to,” she barked.

“Why? To place the blame on me for not stopping the Elder One? You must know I could not—not as I was. Not as I am.”

She stopped in her tracks, fists clenched at her sides. The Anchor was flaring up her arm like fire, but she would not bend. She would not get on her knees for him again. She stood still and tried to breathe through the pain, teeth set against it.

Solas’s eyes still did not leave her face.

“I know this—” she gestured clumsily with her shoulder at the room “—is my fault, for letting a year slip by. It’s _real_ to me, Solas, the way I have allowed the world to suffer, even though I know I’m about to erase it. It still happened.” Ixchel’s head swam with pain and exhaustion and the overwhelming tempest of her emotions. “I just… I need someone to know. I need _you_ to know. The truth.”

At last the pulse of the Anchor released her, though it left her knees weak. She moved one foot after the other and approached him slowly, reaching for his hands where he held the bars of his cell. He did not move away from her, but neither did he speak. She wondered if the lyrium had turned him to stone already.

“We traveled together for years. You _gave_ me Skyhold. We found a fragment of Mythal’s spirit that lived on through the ages. My dearest friend, Solas, we uncovered so many wonders, and in the end I pieced it together—I realized who you were, Fen’Harel, and I loved you still.”

His hands were hot to the touch, and she could feel the sickly rhythm of the song in his skin.

“Yet for all that you professed to love me, for as much as you praised me for my heart and intelligence, even though you named me a champion for the Elvhen… You left me behind to walk your _dinan’shiral_. All I had was a broken heart and your shattered focus and your Anchor in my arm eating me alive.”

She pressed her forehead against the bars to hold herself up, because she wanted to collapse into the fetid waters at her feet and drown. Solas’s chest rose and fell in front of her eyes with short, shallow breaths, and still he did not speak.

“Years later, you drew me into the Vir Dirthara and your hidden temple because the Anchor was going to kill me. And as you _took my arm from me,_ you told me everything. The Evanuris, the slave rebellion, the Veil, the Tranquil world you awoke in…” She closed her eyes to block out the sight of his wolf jaw pendant, and his fluttering chest underneath. “But you would not tell me why I could not join you, _ma vhenan._ In the years that followed, you would not tell me why you would not kill me, _vhenan.”_

She did not know how her voice had become more steady, even as she unburdened herself to the man caged before her. She had imagined this confession as a rage, a howl, or a sob, but it hurt her more to speak so calmly. And she deserved the hurt.

“I chased you across all of Thedas until I realized the truth. My truth, at least. I couldn’t stop you, even if I had wanted to. Even if _you_ wanted me to. So I stopped trying. I gave up.”

And admitting this was a relief she had not realized she needed. The tears came to her eyes, but her voice was clear and soft. She tightened her grip on his hands as her tenuous composure wavered.

“Deathroot. My own terms, _ma vhenan,_ when you were too cruel to release me yourself, and I was too weak to keep fighting against your pride.”

“Then... It should not be possible…” His voice was a hoarse whisper, ravaged by time and lyrium and grief. “You are no wisp…no echo of the Fade.”

“From what I can remember, the Veil had come down and the world was full of power and blood, and someone—” she spat it viciously “—took the opportunity to perform a ritual so fatal it tore a hole in reality itself. They woke me and sent me back to the Conclave to suffer the same fate, all over again. It’s not as though I figured anything out in the time I was _dead_ , so I don’t know what they expected.” Ixchel coughed to disguise a rough sob. “So why send me back again, Solas?” she repeated. “Why does everyone I love ask me to suffer this again and again?”

Solas extricated his hands from hers, and she cried out despite herself, but then his hands were lifting her face to his and he pressed his lips to her forehead through the bars.

“Because I believe in you,” he said. “But you knew that.”

Her shoulders bowed under the weight of his acknowledgment, and she blinked in a vain attempt to stem her tears.

“It is not in my nature—it is _impossible_ —for me to believe I could fail,” he said as he brushed her cheeks with his thumbs. “I cannot think of another way to undo my mistakes, and I do not believe there _is_ another way. But if anyone were capable of proving me wrong…it might be you.”

He continued to stroke her face, and she blinked her vision clear for a moment to see him considering her with the same expression he had worn the day he had left her at the eluvian overlooking his refuge. There was heartbreak there, she recognized, and a curiosity she did not understand. It felt like a dagger in her breast, and she had to look down to make sure he had not in fact stabbed her in an act of mercy.

No. Even now, he was cruel in that way.

 _“Ir abelas, vhenan,”_ he said at last. “I have destroyed so many things in my pride. _Ir abelas, vhenan._ I could not spare you.”

She felt every inch the lost da’len she had been when he had left her in the wake of Corypheus’s defeat. She felt stupid and helpless and hopeless worst of all. She did not want to fight.

But still she could not stop. If not for his sake, then for the countless others who would suffer if she gave up now… But they would suffer again, at his hands… Her heart groaned as her brain fell into the same sick patterns it had so often followed, in those days near the end…

“Kill me,” he said in a voice more ragged than she had ever heard from him. “It is the only other way.”

They both knew she would not be able to kill him, now or ever.

_Futile. Futile._

Ixchel could not bear to raise her gaze to his face for fear of his tears. She had never seen them before, and she could not bear to see them now. The guilt might break her—or, worse, the sight might inspire hope that she could not afford to plant in her poisoned heart.

She slipped her arms through the bars and embraced him, her dear friend, her teacher, her guiding star, her love. She listened to the sickly stutter of his heart in his mortal breast and she let her tears soak into his shirt as she mourned the death of too many to count, and many more to come.

He carded his hands through her hair, ran them down her back, and made the same circuit again, and again, as he whispered ancient apologies into her skin. They stood there for too long, but she could not tear herself away.

It was Solas who had the strength to pull back, because of course he did, and she did not, and that was how it would always be.


	10. In Hushed Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/17/20

She released him from his cell as she should have originally, but he did not reach for her. He seemed reluctant to get too close to her, and it was with a morbid sense of vengeance that she took his hand and led him out of the cell block to find Dorian. Once she had taken his hand, however, Solas threaded their fingers together tightly and did not seem inclined to let go.

Ixchel knew what she must look like, but neither Varric nor Dorian commented. She felt hungover from the release, and she truly wished for a glass of cool water to get the taste of ash and lyrium out of her mouth. She knew no such relief was available, however, so they plowed on.

She collected Bull and Leliana, and they breached the surface to look up at the sundered Veil.

“The Veil is shattered,” Solas explained to Dorian softly. “There is no longer a barrier between this world and the Fade.” But then, he addressed Ixchel, whose hand was still clutched in his own. “Just like a spirit, it has been twisted against its purpose. That is why it has become an abomination.”

She looked up at him wearily and tried to thank him with her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was an attempt at reassurance. But it did not ease the ache in her.

She had hoped for some relief after their confrontation, but the pain had been blunted slightly. It throbbed with the pulse of the Anchor, with the beat of lyrium in Solas’s hand, and she wondered what it would take to end it.

She had thought the deathroot would be enough.

They found Alexius’s journal, and she handed it to Dorian who read it with uncharacteristic silence. “Hold on to it,” she told him, and she continued on resolutely.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel approached Alexius in silence, and her companions stood behind her, holding their breaths. At last, she dipped her head. “All this suffering, and for what?”

“For my country… For my son… But you…”

“Is it worth it?” Dorian asked desperately. “Look at him!”

“Does it matter?” Alexius asked in response. “All we can do is wait for the end.”

Ixchel cut off Dorian before he could explode. “That is all any of us can say, while we walk this earth. But some walk paths that lead them to better ends. I will undo this, and I will offer you mercy, Alexius. Felix deserves better.”

“Maker’s breath,” Dorian croaked.

Leliana caught Felix up in her arms, and Alexius groveled for his life.

“I want the world back,” Leliana snarled, and when she slit the living corpse’s throat, Ixchel was no less prepared for how much it hurt her. She sprang into battle regardless, placing herself back-to-back with Bull, letting the familiar mantle of Solas’s barriers settle atop her skin. She created openings for Varric’s daggers, pinned Alexius against a wall so her companions could strike—

And at last, Ixchel stood over Alexius’s body, her axe embedded in his chest.

“He wanted to die, didn’t he?” Dorian murmured. “All the lies he told himself… He lost Felix long ago… Didn’t even notice… Oh, Alexius.”

“This Alexius was too far gone. The Alexius in our time might still be redeemed.” Ixchel stood stiffly, even as she tried to offer comfort to this man—this man who had left her, on the worst day of her life, and who had the _gall_ to pull her back and send her _here_ — “But Dorian, we don’t have much time. He’s coming.”

“Give me an hour—”

“An hour?! That’s impossible! You must go now!” Leliana snarled, and seemingly in response, the Archdemon’s screams caused the very foundation of Redcliffe castle to shift.

“Right. Now. Yes,” Dorian said, a glimmer of panic eating into his voice.

“We’ll hold the outer door,” Bull said. “When they get past us, it’ll be your turn, boss.”

She met his eyes stoically. _Bas_. “It’s Ixchel."

His face softened every so slightly, and he nodded. Varric and Leliana limped over to join him by the door. But Solas remained; his face was cracked with lyrium and grief, and his lips moved, shaping words he could not seem to speak. He slowly shook his head and began to turn—and then he stopped, and he turned back to close the distance between him and Ixchel.

She met him with open arms, and he buried his face in her hair. He breathed deep of her; his wolf jaw pendant pressed into her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to him. “I wasted so much time. I should have asked better questions.”

“I do not know that anything I could tell you would make a difference.” He sighed, and he leaned away so that he could pull her hair over her shoulder, to lay it across her breast. He untangled it, smoothed it back from her face, as though committing every sensation to memory. “I wish…” He seemed to lose himself to her eyes, and he drew closer again, forehead pressed to hers. “I had only just begun to recognize your indomitable spirit. If what you say about me is true, Ixchel, then you must know I had faith in you. In your strength. Your will. Your courage. You _must not_ turn yourself against your purpose. You _must not_ allow Despair to corrupt you.”

“Faith?” she asked hollowly. “Faith, or hope?”

He pressed his answer to her lips, where it lingered even after he had turned and joined Bull, Varric, and Leliana at the door.

 _“Telanadas,”_ he said, and the door closed behind him.

-:-:-:-:-

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Dorian crowed to Alexius.

“No!” Alexius gasped. “No—” and he rounded on Felix, hands grasping. “My son…”

“We will do whatever we can to help him,” Ixchel said, but Alexius sobbed and fell to his knees.

“You won,” Alexius gasped. “There is no point in extending this charade. Just kill me.”

“It’s going to be alright, Father,” Felix said, kneeling beside the Magister. “Not everyone is playing a game. She means it.”

“I cannot bear it… If you’re wrong… You’ll die.” Alexius buried his face in his son’s shoulder, and Felix wrapped him in his arms and sighed.

“Everyone dies.”

Ixchel did not even have a moment to look at Solas and Varric and Bull before the King of Ferelden marched in with his army.

“Grand Enchanter,” Alistair thundered. “Imagine how surprised I was to learn you’d given Redcliffe Castle off to a Tevinter Magister.”

“King Alistair—”

“Especially since I’m fairly sure Redcliffe belongs to Arl Teagan.”

“Your Majesty,” Fiona pleaded, “I never intended—”

“I know what you intended.” Grief softened Alistair’s face, and Ixchel was surprised when he took a step toward the Grand Enchanter. “I wanted to help you. But you’ve made it impossible.” He shook his head slowly as his heavy words sank through the thick air. “You and your followers are no longer welcome in Ferelden.”

Ixchel cleared her throat and came to stand beside Fiona. “King Alistair. The Grand Enchanter was under the sway of a power beyond our reckoning. The force that caused the Breach has been playing with the very fabric of time, and I have witnessed firsthand what a threat it must be. Please, forgive Fiona.”

Fiona looked between Ixchel and Alistair as a war of frustration and despair played out on her face. Ixchel held her gaze for a moment and wished for Fiona to remember what she had proposed to Alexius. It had been only minutes ago, for Fiona.

The Grand Enchanter’s features calmed. She bowed her head.

“I understand that you cannot take the Free Mages into your protection, given the political tensions that this has raised among the arls.”

Alistair hummed in agreement.

“Though this is not _exactly_ how I wanted to bring it up, the Inquisition is currently squatting on an Orlesian holding within Ferelden’s borders.” Ixchel scratched some blood off of the gauntlet that shrouded the Anchor. “But perhaps, if the Inquisition were to take the Free Mages on, you would be able to capitalize on that…nuance.”

“It might soothe some tempers for now,” Alistair agreed. “However, in the long run—”

“I’m well aware of the consequences for our loitering,” Ixchel said darkly. “Would I be able to have a private word with you, Your Majesty?”

Surprise lit up the man’s golden face, and she added, “My friends, please wait for me outside. Do not speak of what has occurred. I would like to bear that news to the Lord Seeker’s doorstep myself.”

“Ixchel—”

“I’ll be fine,” she told Solas, and she looked to Dorian to lead the way.

As the Inquisition, the Chargers, and Dorian exited the hall, Ixchel turned back to Alistair. She again shook blood off of her gloves, and Alistair seemed to find the movement familiar. His lips twitched into a sympathetic smile.

“I would have you know, I did not take this mantle willingly or lightly. I am an elf, and an athiest, from the Free Marches. I would not be here if I truly had a choice. So—in light of the fact that I _am_ still here, leading the Inquisition—I hope you understand the gravity of the threat we’re trying to quell.”

“I think that I do,” Alistair said. “Nevertheless, I’ve learned that political climates are often divorced from reality. Arl Teagan isn’t the first to complain of foreigners on Ferelden soil, and not all of the complaints are about Tevinter agents.”

Ixchel nodded wearily. “For what it’s worth, I am doing everything in my power to make the Inquisition’s presence a welcome one. Perhaps the efforts that endear us to your subjects do not always endear us to your lords.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I cannot predict what path the Inquisition will take to achieve its goal, but I will do my utmost to keep it true to its purpose. I am not Orlesian. I do not belong to the Chantry. I am not beholden to the Mages, or the Templars, to Tevinter, or even to the Dales. I’m just,” she said firmly, “trying to save the world.”

Alistair studied her keenly, then inclined his head. “When I…” He caught himself. “You would think that a crown would give you more power to help in times like these.”

“Oh, I know it doesn’t.” An earnest smile twisted the scars on her face. “Just remember this, Alistair: when your arls force your hand, I’d rather you stab me in the front than stab me in the back.”

-:-:-:-:-

If Ixchel’s plan was going to work, she needed to ensure the Free Mages reached Haven safely—without the Templars finding out. Fortunately, to pacify the arls, Alistair needed a show of stern force against his mother and the Mages.

They agreed that he would leave a force behind to escort the Free Mages to Haven, with a public declaration that they were being marched out of Ferelden. If Ixchel rode fast enough, she might reach Therinfal before the Mages reached their destination; otherwise, she risked the Templars believing that she had allied with the Mages over them, and she would have no chance in swaying the Order out from under the Lord Seeker’s corrupting influence. She asked the Chargers to travel with the Mages, as Fiona’s personal guard, because she knew Bull wouldn’t be able to travel fast enough at her side. She did not need Dorian to ask for her to know that he wanted to spend time with Felix. She let him go. And, after all, the Templars _probably_ wouldn't take to her consorting with Tevinter mages.

And so she raced, on the back of her noble hart, to meet Cassandra and Josephine at Therinfal.

Josephine had organized changes for their mounts at stops along the way, but her hart refused to leave her the first time she tried. Solas murmured something to it under his breath in Elvhen that she did not catch, but he seemed proud of it, and the hart seemed to know it.

They rode so swiftly and so hard that she would nearly collapse the moment she left the saddle at the end of the day. She left all explanation for what had transpired at Redcliffe to Dorian; in truth, she tried not to think of it much herself as she traveled. When she fell into her bedroll each night, her dreams were empty and at peace. If she allowed her mind to stray to her fraught confrontations in the future, she knew that she would jeopardize her tenuous ceasefire with her psyche.

“There she is! The Herald!” Cassandra cried at the first sight of them breaking through the trees.

But when she dismounted, dressed again in her fine, heavy armor, she was met instead by a masked Orlesian lord. “The Herald of Andraste! Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honored to participate.” She saw his smile behind his mask and thought it cloyingly polite. Her brow dipped immediately into a scowl. “It is not unlike the second dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales,” he said.

Ice shot through her veins, and she heard Solas behind her catch his breath. Even Cassandra, who approached behind him, had heard and reacted violently. “You have lost whatever right you had to speak to her,” she spat. “The Lord Seeker wants to see you, Herald. Now.”

“Ah, but he still wants to speak with me as well,” Abernache said with a smug chuckle.

“I thought we were going to be dealing with Templars, Seeker Pentaghast,” Ixchel said, thunder in her voice and fire in her eyes. “Not limp wrists and sour tongues from Orlais.”

She spun on her heel and continued her trek into the fortress. She ignored the Orlesians and instead made a point to approach the Templars. She swiftly gathered that the situation within their ranks had changed: sometime between his dismissal of the Inquisition in Val Royeaux and their arrival at Therinfal Redoubt, the Lord Seeker had become fixated on meeting with her—and her alone, by name.

The Templars struggled to explain to her and to the gathered Orlesian ladies why exactly they had withdrawn their protection from the Chantry of Val Royeaux and abandoned their people to the ravages of the Breach. She assured them that, though their faith in the Lord Seeker’s motives might have been shaken, her motives were pure.

“I would be honored to have you protect the people of Thedas alongside the Inquisition,” she said. “These folk mask their intentions, but I wear mine openly—I promise you that.”

“If Andraste chose you, then I’m sure she made no mistake,” a knight told her.

“I present Knight-Templar Ser Delrin Barris, second son of Bann…”

The bare-headed Templar locked eyes with Ixchel, and before the lord had even finished introducing him, he approached the Herald. “I’m the one who sent word to Cullen. He said the Inquisition works to close the Breach in the Veil.”

“Cullen spoke truly,” she said.

“I didn’t think you’d bring such lofty company,”

“Barris…?” Abernache scoffed. “Only moderate holdings, your family. And the second son?” He tutted.

“They are _not_ my company,” Ixchel said icily. “Unlike them, I don’t view the Templars as pets to be kept on a leash. You are men and women dedicated to protecting Thedas against heretical magicks. That is what I respect, and that is the purpose to which I would see us united. Though I hear that, perhaps, that is not the purpose the _Lord Seeker_ has in mind for you.”

Something set in Ser Barris’s jaw at her words, and he nodded sharply. He continued to ignore the pesky noble at his side. “The sky burns with magic, but he ignores all calls to action until the frilly pastries arrived.”

“Should a Seeker be leading your ranks in this way?” Ixchel asked, turning to the only other Seeker she knew.

“In an emergency, if there is no other recourse—it is our duty to restore them to their _purpose_ ,” Cassandra said. "That is all."

“He has taken command. Permanently.”

“If he believes there is a holy mandate…” Cassandra hesitated.

“That is what he claims, and what our officers parrot,” Berris admitted, and Ixchel’s teeth clenched. She knew full well what holy vendetta the Lord Seeker pursued. But that had been within the ranks of the Seekers…not the Templars. The Templars had—

And she sucked in a breath. Where was Samson?

“The Lord Seeker’s actions make no sense,” Berris insisted. “He promised to restore the Order’s honor, then he marched us here to hide, away from the Breach?”

“There is no honor in that,” Ixchel agreed.

“Win over the Lord Seeker, and every able-bodied knight will fight to seal the Breach.”

“That is why the Inquisition is here,” she said.

“I’d tell you the odds, but the officers are a mystery to me of late. We’ve been asked to accept much, after that shameful display in Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

Ixchel took a step closer and lowered her voice. “You and your people needn’t follow the Lord Seeker, if your conscience tells you his motives are not pure. Trust in your Maker, your Andraste, if you do not trust in me.”

“Don’t keep your betters waiting, Barris. There is important work waiting…for those born to it.”

Ixchel clenched her fist, but Josephine caught her wrist. “Lady Ixchel,” she hissed.

“Lady Montilyet,” the elf replied coldly, “I hope we never reach the day where we regret such dishonesty.”

“Dishonesty?” her ambassador repeated.

“Our silence renders us complicit.” She tilted her head to consider Abernache’s retreating back. “Consider the dispersal of the Dales. Or the burning of Halamshiral.”

But she bowed her head respectfully to Josephine and followed Barris, even as she knew that her companions stood frozen behind her.

“The Lord Seeker has a…request…for the Herald before she meets him.” Barris cleared his throat as they approached three large banners in the central courtyard. “These are the Standards. It is an honored rite to raise them. The Lord Seeker asks that you perform the Rite so he may see the order in which you honor them; they are centered on the People, the Maker, and the Order.”

“What if I fail the test?”

“There is no wrong answer,” Barris said with the barest hint of a smile. “The ritual simply shows watchers who you are and what you value.”

“Very well,” she replied. “If that is what the Lord Seeker asks of the Inquisition.”

“Not…the _Inquisition_ ,” Barris said, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. Rain began to fall, and an ominous thunderclap announced the arrival of a storm. “The Lord Seeker changed _everything_ to meet you. Not the Inquisition. _You._ By name, Lady Lavellan.” He paused. “He’s been fixated on you ever since we arrived.”

“The Lord Seeker asks us to shuffle flags around? Refuse!” Abernache whined.

“If it is my answer he seeks, then I shall give it to him,” Ixchel said. “I know myself.”

“The Standards is a rite undertaken by recruits. It’s normally followed by a long study of how the Order was used in the past. Normally, we don’t let outsiders see it at all,” Barris said. “

She assumed that the only standard that was not of the Templar Order or the Chantry—the lion—was meant to symbolize the people. She approached it without hesitation, and she began to raise it. And raise it. And raise it. When it reached the top of the wall, she turned to face the watching lords and ladies, her companions, and the Templars of the Order around her.

Her eyes fell first on Varric, who tried to disguise his chuckle as a sneeze. Then, she looked to Solas, who for once did not slouch in an effort to make himself seem unimportant and unthreatening; he stood tall, chest full of pride, and his eyes gleamed with a canny light of approval. The thin smile on his face was hard, almost savage. And then she looked at Josephine, who had fluttered so fearfully when Barris said there was no right answer, as though she didn’t believe him or thought him to be lying. Josephine looked like she might faint from anticipation.

And then she looked at Cassandra.

Cassandra, the woman who had become the Divine.

The woman who had still donned her armor and picked up a sword at a moment’s notice, when Ixchel had needed her.

The woman who had ignored her packed schedule of diplomatic meetings in order to find her the moment she woke, after Solas had taken her arm.

The woman who had made time to see the elven Inquisitor every day that she remained in Halamshiral. The woman who had washed her hair when Ixchel was too full of despair to leave her bed and do such a task herself. The woman who had braided her hair while Ixchel wept. The woman who had put berries in her water to make sure she had something in her stomach, when nothing else would stay down.

The woman who had asked her to stay with her, in the Chantry’s grand convent, so that she would not be alone in an empty Skyhold.

Ixchel’s vision of Cassandra blurred as the Seeker raised her fist to her chest in a loyal salute, because the Seeker could not possibly know the weight of her loyalty in that moment.

“You aren’t the Herald they taught us to expect,” Barris said under his breath, “but perhaps that is part of Andraste’s message.”

“If that is what you believe,” she said. “I know what Cullen believes, and it has led him on a path whose honor _no one_ could question.”

Barris was quiet for a moment, then he spoke over the tittering of the lords and ladies gathered.

“Traditionally, a participant in the rite now explains their choices to those assembled.”

"Ah, very well." Ixchel’s voice was heavy when she spoke to the other onlookers. “Ask yourselves,” she said, “what your Andraste would choose. And what your _Maker_ would choose. The Chantry? The Order? They were created by man. They have a concrete beginning, and roots in politics and war. The only constant is the people: the poor, the suffering, the lost. _Those_ are who I stand for. Those are who I fight for. They are why _we_ must close the Breach.”

“This is a waste of the Inquisition’s time!” Abernache crowed. “And my time! You helmed louts—”

 _“You_ are a waste of the Inquisition’s time,” Ixchel spat. She fixed her eyes on a sympathetic Lady she recognized from outside the gates. “Those of you who would preserve the world, and uphold your reputations as _honorable_ leaders—you are not a waste of my time.”

She spat at Abernache’s feet and looked pointedly at Ser Barris, who was struggling to hide his smile.

“The Lord Seeker awaits you both,” Barris said.

They had only just gathered around the bargaining table when a helmed Knight-Captain entered.

“You were expecting the Lord Seeker. He sent me to die for you.”

“To _what?”_ Ixchel’s jaw dropped to her chest.

“Knight-Captain!” Abernache drooled. “Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honored. It is not unlike the second dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales.”

Cassandra grabbed the straps at the back of Ixchel’s armor to keep the Herald from leaping over the table and strangling the Lord.

“No doubt rank puts you above such things. A pity more people don’t understand that.”

The Knight-Captain chuckled darkly. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?”

“Lord Abernache has made it clear who he stands with—and it is not with the people, the Order, or the Chantry.” Ixchel looked at Ser Barris, who seemed troubled by the Knight-Captain. She looked back at him to find his eyes wide, almost mad, behind his visor.

“The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the _Herald_ ruined it by arriving with purpose. It sowed too much dissent. You were all supposed to unite against them, see them as bickering fools!” the Knight-Captain snarled at Barris. “Now we must purge the questioning knights!”

Outside, Ixchel heard a scream, and then the dull roar of a battle rose up. A door opened, and Ixchel’s blood began to hum with the sound of red lyrium.

Arrows thudded into Templars around her, into Abernache’s skull—and Ixchel ducked to avoid one. It clanged off Cassandra’s raised shield.

“These are no Templars!” Ixchel roared, and she leaped over the table to tackle the Knight-Commander.

He rolled with her on the ground in a cacophony of metal on stone. “The Elder One is coming!” he snarled. “No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”

“Maker’s breath!” Barris shouted.

The battle did not last long.

“The Knight-Captain yet lives,” she panted as she rolled his unconscious body off of her. Her allies rushed to her side to help her stand. “If you use a healing elixir, he may survive, though he does not deserve it. We need information. Now, let’s find his master.”

“The Knight-Captain’s keys,” Barris said quietly, and he handed her the ring.

“Varric, Solas. The people outside—they can’t defend themselves.” A sudden realization dawned upon her. _“Josephine!”_

“Spare no thought to it,” Solas said, and he strode with purpose back the way they had come. Varric was on his heels.

“They’re monstrous!” Cassandra’s breathing was ragged from rage and exertion. “They are unlike anything I have ever seen.”

“Such is the corruption of red lyrium,” Ixchel replied grimly, "and the will of the Elder One."

“Prepare them!” A voice rippled through the air. “Guide them to me!”

“Was that the Lord Seeker?” Ixchel looked around for the source of the voice.

“Where?” Cassandra asked.

“Did you not hear him?”

“Show me what you _ARE!”_ the voice bellowed, and from the unflinching, flabbergasted stare on Cassandra’s face, she assumed that she was the only one who heard it.

“Fuck,” Ixchel said distinctly, “me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telanadas, - nothing is inevitable


	11. Therinfal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/17/20

_“You will be so much more!”_

Ixchel had to actually cover her ears against the voice, though it was only in her head.

_“If only you would let me know you!”_

“These are the Knight-Captain’s notes,” Barris said, running out of an office with his hands full.

“Good ser,” Ixchel said quickly, “keep them for your own answers. I think I already know. We _must_ find the Lord Seeker. _We have no time.”_

“Your brothers and sisters—” Cassandra pleaded.

“You’re right,” Barris agreed.

Ixchel could hear the song more clearly than she ever had—the red lyrium. It was deafening, and it was in her brain. It was a torturous sound, but the thought of finding its source gave her the thought of bliss beyond imagining.

She stopped in her tracks and tried to control her breathing.

“Ixchel?” Cassandra’s heavy gauntlet came down on her back to steady her. “Are you wounded?”

“I can hear him, the Lord Seeker. Whatever magic has influenced the Templars… I can feel it.”

“If we stop Lucius, maybe we can—”

“Ser Venner! Ser Mauden! Come to your senses!”

Ixchel shook herself and gripped her axe all the tighter as Barris held off two of his former allies. She ran out to find Ser Barris in a tight circle of swords and shields, having found loyal Templars to fight with against the Red ones. When they had taken care of that wave of enemies, Ixchel led their growing band onward.

“That’s the Knight-Vigilant! The Lord Seeker told us he died at the Conclave!”

Cassandra’s face was white with rage. “The Lord Seeker lied. Maker help us.”

“How long was this planned?” One of their new allies snarled. “How long has this lie poisoned us?”

“Nothing in this makes sense!”

“We’ll find out what’s going on,” Ixchel barked. “Let’s move.”

_“Come. Come to me. Show me what kind of woman you really are.”_

“There! At the top of the—”

Ixchel barreled up the stairs with a roar…and right into the Lord Seeker’s waiting arms. She felt Fade magic envelop her as he staggered back under her momentum, but they did not crash into the door.

Instead, she stumbled into a fog of lyrium and the Fade.

She _howled_ at the vaulted stone ceilings she found above her. Then, she saw that she was not the only one who had had the same reaction. Bodies were frozen all around her, screaming silently, burning like macabre candles just as she had seen at the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes.

She saw a path forward through the fog, lit by those corpses, and she strode unflinchingly through them.

But she yelped in terror when she found her way suddenly blocked by Cullen and Josephine, as if they had appeared out of thin air.

They stared dead-eyed past her, toward the ground, and swayed like mindless puppets in the fog. From behind them, she saw a shadow pull itself away from the wall—and Leliana, her face gaunt, approached.

“Is this shape useful? Will it let me know you?”

Leliana smiled so _gleefully_ at Ixchel that the elf immediately moved toward her, a threat.

“Everything tells me about you,” the Lady Nightingale sang. She _tsked_ at Ixchel, then pulled Cullen’s limp head up by the hair. “So will this: watch.”

The song of the lyrium in Ixchel’s blood grew to a deafening volume as Leliana drew her dagger slowly across Cullen’s throat. Ixchel’s breath came sharp and fast through her nose as she unwillingly burned the sight into the darkest parts of her brain: a thin red line, a soft ripple, and then a slow bulge of blood that became a cascade down Cullen’s pale skin. His mantle was slick with it.

Ixchel raised her eyes to Leliana’s. “I have faced the Nightmare,” she said icily. “I have walked bodily into his domain and left him _cowering_. Shall I do the same to you, demon?”

Leliana’s eyes widened with exaggerated surprise, and then she began to cackle. “Being you will be so much more _interesting_ than being the Lord Seeker.”

Leliana and Josephine’s mouths moved in unison, but the voice that poured forth belonged to neither.

Josephine approached Ixchel dressed in all her golden finery, a dagger dancing in her palm.

And then she was gone—no, she was at Ixchel’s shoulder, whispering: “Do you know what the Inquisition can become? You’ll see.”

She was gone again.

“When I’m done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will _be_ you.”

“After his ascension, there will be no _me_ to be,” Ixchel replied dryly.

“Glory is coming,” the demon said with Josephine’s mouth. “The Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.”

“Keep talking,” Ixchel purred.

Josephine’s brow furrowed, and she stalked off into the fog.

“I am not your _toy!”_ Cullen’s face was streaked with red lyrium; his eyes burned with addiction withdrawals. “I am Envy, and I will know you!”

“Be careful what you’re asking for,” she warned it.

“What’s this?” it asked. “What do you see?”

And she was stood before an eluvian, but it was a dead one; in her dusty reflection, she saw her Lion behind her.

Her reflection’s eyes shone with the Fade, and then they went dark, burnt out, died. The false Herald fell, a dagger in her back. Cullen stepped on her body.

Ixchel’s mouth was dry, and it tasted of deathroot and lyrium and blood. She turned from the image to find her war table in front of her, Cullen bent over it with flames licking his hands. “Tell me what you _feel!”_

He began to vomit blood, black blood and red lyrium. It was swiftly covering her boots, flooding the floor. She backed away and tried to focus on the Anchor, on the Fade magick she felt had threaded into her soul. The eluvian returned, and as she raised the Anchor, a pulse of green light burst from her in an Aegis. The floodwaters receded; the demon cried out.

The eluvian awoke to her.

She strode through.

But she did not find herself in Fen’Harel’s refuge, as she had planned. Instead, she was in the Haven dungeon. She saw Cassandra at the far side, at the head of a ring of Inquisition warriors with their swords pointed at a bowed figure in their midst.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now! … Explain this! …You’re lying!”

Ixchel watched the spirit stalk around, impersonating Cassandra, reenacting this memory.

“Do you deny it? Do you deny your crime?”

Red lyrium burst through the ceiling above her, groaning its sickly song.

“Our enemies have surrendered unconditionally,” Harding’s voice called out jubilantly. “Our strength is unlike any other in Thedas!”

Ixchel left the dungeon to find a battlefield consumed with flame.

“Our reach begins to match my ambition,” the demon purred, and a figure stalked toward her. It was incomplete: a shadow of herself. “We will strive for more.”

Ixchel tilted her head. “At least one of us is enjoying ourselves.”

She continued onward, pushed past the demon impersonating her and went in search of another exit. This place did remind her of the Nightmare’s domain, but it was so much more claustrophobic. Every time she pushed through imagined flames, she met a wall; every time she waved away the fog, there was more. She felt confined, choked, cold despite the fire.

The room was suddenly plunged into darkness. Water licked her boots, then her knees, and red lyrium glowed in the depths beneath her.

The walls were cold and dead here in the Deep Roads, and the demon’s voice was as loud as the rush of water; gatlok boomed and crackled in the wake of its echoes.

“Tell me: were you in earnest when you chose the people’s flag for the Standards? For when I am you, the people will never forget what you do to them.”

A hand wrapped around her ankle, and she was dragged beneath the black waters.

She landed sprawled in the midst of a group of Inquisition mages. Corpses surrounded them, sacrificed in bloody rituals at the foot of her throne.

“Who would stand against us, when the Inquisition commands nations?”

“When the Chantry fell, we despaired. But the herald of Andraste gave us light!”

Ixchel pressed her lips together in a smile. She had been afraid, for a moment, as she stumbled through memories of the Exalted Council. But it was clear that the demon could not understand what they contained. It filled in the blanks with what it knew of her, and she would not tell this demon that it had estimated her so poorly.

She stood and left the scene, dancing through rivers of veilfire left in the demon’s wake.

The Fade vibrated around her, watching from every angle.

“Do you see how glorious my Inquisition will be—after you die at the hands of the Elder One?”

“Oh, I have seen it,” she assured the demon. “It’s better than you think, demon.”

Ixchel found herself in a room full of familiar, odd paintings from Halamshiral. Whispers poured out of their mouths—a memory that was not her own.

_Followed out of a dream. A beckoning thread of power. At the end of it a figure, crowned in imperial red, seen through a tear in the air. The Elder One, demanding servitute with an offer impossible to resist:_

_Leader of the Seekers. Commander of Knights. Lord Seeker Lucius Corin. Master of Templars._

“You’re hurting, helpless, hasty. What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?”

She cocked her head and looked for Cole, but she did not see him.

“What _are_ you?” the demon cried. “Get out! This is my place!”

She continued on.—until a door closed behind her. She found herself in a room turned upside down, burning, gravity overturned. A shattered eluvian before her.

A hand extended through it, clad in golden scales.

“Solas!” she called, reaching for him.

The Anchor flared again, but this time it was not at her own bidding.

Ixchel screamed as the pain ripped her apart. As the pain of living became the pain of dying and became the pain of living again. She reached for Solas’s hand but could not close the distance—

_“Wait!”_

Cole stepped between her and the hand, and he clutched her shoulders. “Envy is hurting you! Mirrors on mirrors on memories! A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help—you, not Envy! You’ve seen me before! We’re _inside_ you!”

She stopped reaching past him and held on to him instead. Cole helped her stand. “It’s easy to hear, harder to be a part of what you’re hearing. It’s harder for _you_ to be _apart_ from what you’re hearing. But I’m here, hearing, helping. I hope.”

“You’ll need to,” she groaned. The pain, phantom though it might of been, had not left her. “You’ll need to hope for the both of us, Cole.”

“I tried to help. Then I was here, in the hearing. It’s—it’s not usually like this.”

“Weird shit happens to me all the time,” she admitted. “You’ll get used to it.”

She heard a sound then, and a door screamed open. But Cole did not let her pull toward it. “I was watching. I watch. Every Templar knew when you arrived. They were impressed…but not like the Lord Seeker.”

“That’s the Envy demon?” Ixchel sighed at Cole’s noise of assent.

“It forced their fury, their fight. They’re red inside.”

“And then it goes to their outsides,” Ixchel told him gently. “You want to help.”

“Yes!” Cole pulled her away from the door again; Ixchel realized the room had been growing narrower, inching toward her. “You’re frozen. Envy is trying to take your face. I heard it and reached out, and then in, and then I was here.”

“How do you mean I’m frozen, Cole?”

“Thoughts are fast. We’re here. Outside, a blade is still falling, hanging in the air like a sunset.”

“I’m sick and _tired_ of time magic! I need to get out of here, Cole.”

“And you’ll need all of you, to do it.”

She pursed her lips, sensing he was about to convey something that he knew would be hard for her to hear. He hid his gaze behind his hat guiltily, as though he didn’t want to see his words hurt her, even though he knew they would later help. “Shards, jagged and bleeding. Gather them up, then you’ll get out. It would be good if you got out.”

“Then help me,” she said softly. “I accept.”

“It’s _your_ head. I’d hoped you’d know your path.” He released her at last and paced the room. It backed away from the spirit, expanding with every circuit of his path. “All of this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to make more. Being one person is hard. Being many—too many, more and more—and Envy breaks down. You break out.”

Ixchel reached to stop him. “I hope it helps,” she said, “but it will hurt first. And it might hurt you.”

“Me?” Cole was taken aback. His hands came to cup her elbows, holding her up. “You think so?”

“Let’s go, Cole.”

“That _thing_ can’t help you!” Envy snarled from the walls, the floor. “I _will_ see more!”

Ixchel clung to Cole. She thought of Haven, emptied of civilians, overrun by the Venatori and their Red Templars. She felt Envy struggle to contain the battlefield—it was clear, as far as the eye could see, and then it flooded with snow in an avalanche that swallowed her, blinded her in a blizzard. But Cole walked along beside her.

“That’s it!” he said. “Come! More!”

“Betrayed allies will curse your name! Like the first Inquisition, you will bring blood and ruin and fear!”

She held up the Anchor to shield her eyes from the snow and wind, and she dug her nails into the fabric of the Fade. She was instead shielding her eyes fom the bright, dancing light of the sun in the Arbor Wilds. Grey Wardens lay scattered at her feet, broken and bloody, shock on their faces as they realized they were dying for a Call that had not Called.

Stroud, a frozen image of him, stood mournfully above them. She put a comforting hand on his shoulder as she passed him by, and he dissolved into smoke.

Cole frowned, but he allowed her to take the lead to the next door. Instead of the Temple of Mythal, inside was her war table, with Cassandra and Lord Roderick arguing over a body laid out along it.

“Is that my body?” she guessed.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Cole said.

“Be quiet, you!” Envy snarled. “I’m _learning!”_

“And we wouldn’t want to stunt your scholarly endeavors,” Ixchel replied.

Roderick’s thundering voice responded instead. “The elf failed, Seeker! The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way!”

Cassandra turned from the Chancellor, her face stormy. At the sight of Ixchel, the fury on her face turned to sorrow, and then despair. Ixchel knew that her faith had been broken.

Ixchel bowed her head but pressed onward.

“Ah—”

Cole was pulled away from her as she entered the next trial. She looked around for him, then summoned the feeling of his calm back to her. He reappeared, hand held tight in her own.

“How did you—?!” Envy shrieked.

 _“She_ knows _me,”_ Cole told the demon helpfully. “And I know _that_ that isn’t you,” he told Ixchel.

Her incomplete double was falling apart at the edges, blurry with the green of the Fade. It seemed Envy’s grasp on her was slipping. But the false Herald stood in front of Mother Giselle, who was begging for her life.

“What do you say to your crimes, heretic?”

“This is a farce! I demand justice!”

“Have it! Take her to the gallows.”

“The people turn against despots,” she told Envy as she skirted the incoming soldiers. “My blood is a testament to many _mien’harel!”_

“I will clear their doubt!” Envy hissed. “As Herald, the lash will follow my word.”

“The lash shall fall on _your_ back,” she assured it.

She stepped through an archway and into the crumbling landscape of the Vir Dirthara. The ground cracked around her.

“This isn’t real,” Cole said. “Keep going up. You’re more you, there, than you are Envy, and that tires it out, trying to bring you back down.”

She watched as the path rose in front of her, and for the first time, she felt truly afraid. “I am a terrible place to be, Cole,” she whispered.

There was a terrible laugh. It boomed around her, like the crackling of the Breach. “Oh, oh, I _see_ ,” Envy chortled.

“You shall see,” she promised it quietly.

It's laughter was cut short. It hissed in confusion.

A veilfire puzzle awaited her at the top. “These don’t make you think of what Envy thinks it makes you think of,” Cole said.

“And what is that?”

“It thinks you feel small, _da’len,_ thin-blooded, empty-head.”

“Not here, I don’t,” she told Envy.

She calmly walked around the circle and pieced together the hints that her ancestors had left her. When all the braziers had been lit, the floating islands of the ruined Vir Dirthara floated back into place. She led Cole through the restored rows of books and searched for a Librarian, or perhaps another eluvian.

She found a book opened in front of her.

_Weeks of studying. Learning. Imitating. The Lord Seeker reveals who he is, what he is, with every sharp-tongued reaction. Lucius Corin abandoned, hidden after taking his face, his armor, his Templars. Easy as slipping into a new skin._

_The Herald of Andraste protests as the Templars leave the city. Small. Unimportant. Beneath a Lord Seeker’s notice, but for instructions from the Elder One._

She tossed the book over the side of the Vir Dirthara.

The Fade trembled with Envy’s fury, and she felt some of her strength return to her.

“The Chevaliers!”

“The Herald marches here next, boy, bringing even more demons. There aren’t enough Chevaliers in Val Royeaux—”

“Why invade Orlais?” Ixchel called out. She had wandered out of a row of books and into a dark forest. Bodies hung from nooses all around, and a weeping soldier clung to a half-decomposed body as another looked out through the fog at Ixchel.

“So you’re _curious_. Shall I make use of that when I’m you?”

“You’re letting her see more to sketch her shapes, but what she sees makes her stronger,” Cole said. “She’s more her. She’s not the _Herald_. You can’t _make_ her the Herald.”

“Quiet! See the legacy of the Inquisition: its followers hosts to demons! Your world—ashes! Show me what you’d do with them!”

“Or don’t,” Cole said. He cocked his head to the side. “It’s angry. But that’s okay. So are you.”

Demons prowled out of the fog toward her while rifts opened, tore at the ground. They followed her every step, preyed upon the fallen Inquisition soldiers she led them past. She thought carefully, then held up her Anchor to wave away the fog.

“See this?” she asked Envy.

It was the summoning stones in the Exalted Plains. The demons who followed her were drawn to its center, writhing, screeching. Cole gasped beside her, but she put her right hand soothingly on his shoulder as she waited for the demons to get caught in the circle, bound to her will.

With a pulse from the Anchor in her left, she shattered the stones.

The demons shrank back into spirits: Curiosity, Valor, Passion, she named them.

And she set them free.

One remaining stone flickered with green light, and she approached to hear its dark whispers:

_Growing disbelief. The Herald. Leading nobles. Shining men and women whose power chokes a country. The Inquisition, rising larger than the Templars. Unbearable Envy. What is a Lord Seeker, compared to what the Herald will become?_

_Seething. Consumed with want. Dreaming, wanting, needing to wear the Herald of Andraste’s face when next meeting the Elder One._

“Away from there!”

“It’s so _small_ ,” Cole remarked. His childlike voice was filled with surprise.

The plains turned into the courtyard of Therinfal, and she knew she was getting close. “At the top?” she asked Cole, and pressed on.

The stairs she had so brashly charged up crumbled behind her now with every step. Cole gasped again, and she turned to find the false Herald in his place, charging toward her. It pushed her back agianst the door, pushed her up against it. Its aura was so potent it choked her, like a lover’s sour perfume.

“Unfair! Unfair!” Envy cried. “How can you be whole? I _feel_ the cracks!” It powered up the Anchor—but it was a false mirror, for the Anchor was in its right hand. “We’ll start again! _More_ pain this time! The Elder One still comes!”

“You want pain?” Ixchel asked it. “Here is my pain!”

She drew her knee up to her chin and pushed the demon away from her. She advanced upon it, and a six-eyed wolf followed in her wake. The black shadow towered above her, and it contained more power than Envy, more power than Despair, more power than Nightmare—more power than the _world_ could contain.

And she leaped upon the false Herald just as she had intended to in the first place.


	12. Redoubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/17/20

The Envy demon was the most horrifying thing she had ever seen. And she had been up close and personal with _Corypheus's_ face.

“The Lord Seeker!” Barris shouted, and the demon fled in a flash of green fire.

“No,” Ixchel groaned. “It’s not.” She had a splitting headache.

“That monster ensured we weren’t prepared. I still don’t know what we’re up against.”

They looked in to the Chantry and the remaining Templars. “That was an Envy demon,” Ixchel said. “I clearly caught its fancy.”

“Envy!” Cassandra staggered physically under the weight of the revelation. “Then the Lord Seeker…”

“I’m sorry, Cassandra. Ser.”

“Maker,” Barris said. He hung his head for a moment, then turned, more resolute, to face Ixchel. “And my captain knew. It’s the red lyrium, isn’t it? I knew that wretched stuff was risky.”

“Risky?” Varric echoed. He nodded at Ixchel shortly; she assumed that meant Josephine was alright. “That shit is _evil.”_

“You don’t understand. They often give us new kinds of lyrium,” the Knight-Templar said. “Some used the red lyrium, to prove it was harmless. But that demon turned our leaders so we couldn’t question when this started!”

“Will you keep blaming yourself, or will you help me end this?”

Barris searched her face, and she saw his spirit stretched thin by the grief behind his eyes.

“It will be a hard road, to redemption. For you and the mages,” she said. “But closing the Breach is a first step on that road. I will help you do it—together. You’ve stood with me, watching me. You _know_ my heart.” She thumped her chest earnestly. “Do you trust me?”

And she saw the light rekindle in him. He turned to face the remaining Templars.

“Templar! What is Envy?” he demanded of them.

“A _coward_ , brother!”

“It studies, makes less mistakes. But most of all—it hides.”

“Our commanders may have been turned, but the lieutenants may still be fighting. Our footsoldiers may not stand a chance, without our example.” He turned back to Ixchel and extended a hand. “Envy is rare. Rank and file aren’t trained for that. That’s why it took us top down. But there’s a few left who can handle it: veterans. Bring them here, and with them and enough normal lyrium, we can punch a hole in that barrier.”

“Glad to see Curly isn’t the only Templar left who isn’t crazy,” Varric muttered.

She glanced over her shoulder at Solas. “And you can’t?” she assumed.

“It has grown fat and powerful,” he said begrudgingly. “But are you certain—”

Ixchel quelled his doubts with a look. “Do you trust me?”

 _“Ma ghilana'falon,”_ he said immediately.

“Keep Envy inside,” she told Barris. “I will seek your veterans among the survivors and root out the traitors.”

“Spare them no mercy,” he spat. “A demon holds the honor of the Order. There isn’t a man or woman here who will let that stand.”

Ixchel led Cassandra, Varric, and Solas back down the walls of Therinfal. Every muscle ached; the pain in her temples had not eased in the slightest, and every step she took was a struggle. She had driven herself too hard, rushing here, rushing into battle, rushing through her own mind to battle Envy. She had not been prepared for this. She had not prepared for it to be like Adamant—and it had stretched her thin trying to cover so many angles all at once.

And it seemed as though none of her companions noticed.

“We need Templars, Solas,” Cassandra was arguing, “but we do not need the Order. It is so filled with corruption, there is no saving it.”

“It is not the Order that is corrupted, it is the very _role_ of a Templar that is corrupted,” he shot back. “The fact that they have taken the corrupted lyrium _willingly_ proves that this is not about order, it is about control, and power, and pain.”

“You must understand what we are taught by the Maker! All magic is corruptible. All magic is dangerous. And yet all magic can serve. They were simply told that it would—”

“Stop,” Ixchel begged raggedly. “Philosophy after the bloodshed’s over.”

“I simply pray there is enough of the Order to save,” Cassandra said.

Ixchel did not meet Solas’s eyes, but she dared him bitterly to interrupt Cassandra’s grief.

He did not.

-:-:-:-:-

“You bless us! We feared you were dead!”

“Just get to the Chantry hall.” Ixchel waved the weary veterans out of the places they had found to quietly nurse their wounds and regroup after the routing by the Red Templars. “Barris will explain. Bring the lyrium with you. Where are the others?”

“Have you been working from the top down, then?” the Templar asked. She nodded, and his jaw clenched. “We are the last ones. No one has left the gate since we came down here. If you’ve been thorough, you’ve collected all that remains.”

“Then we will return with you.”

Solas’s hand appeared at her elbow, supporting her as she stumbled up a set of stairs. He pressed close, his chest to her back, and he pushed her forward. “What happened, _ma falon?”_ he murmured. "It haunts you yet."

“Later,” she said. “Did we clear this room? Why is the door—”

Cole opened the door as she mentioned it, and she pulled away from Solas’s grasp to meet him.

Blood covered every inch of the room within, and candles sputtered in the moist space. A marble bust stared at her, a dagger between its eyes. A torn writ fluttered to the ground beneath it and quickly became soaked in blood.

“Celene?” she questioned, and Cole nodded.

“He hates her, haunts her, wants her dead, but hides why. He hid other things, too. But you know them all.”

“An assassination plot against the Empress?” Cassandra gasped.

“There’s so _much_ I need to explain, Cass,” Ixchel growled. “Can we please finish things with the Envy demon first?”

“That was—”

“Compassion, Solas,” she said. “Now—” her voice rose to a scream “— _please!”_

His jaw flexed, and Varric made a concerned noise. “Sunshine?” he asked softly.

“Peoples’ lives are still at stake!” she snapped. “That demon is just sitting there. Does that not bother you? Let’s go!”

She stumbled again, and Cole appeared at her side to catch her. He did not speak as he helped her run back through the fortress. Her friends followed a few paces behind.

“There are more Red Templars on that side of the barrier,” Barris said as they came in. He wiped lyrium from his lips, and his eyes began to swirl with it. “Hold them off, and we’ll break that demon—here they come!”

Ixchel did not stop running, from the moment he began speaking to her, to the moment the first bestial Red Templar plowed through the boundary toward them. She roared as she swung her axe in a circle, cutting clean through its soft midsection where the lyrium had not solidified yet.

She heard Envy shrieking, its voice muted slightly behind the barrier.—and then the screams tore at the air, sent it pressing sharp against her eardrums. For a moment she felt that she was at the bottom of a great ocean, with a weight crushing her.

And then the barriers burst, and silence fell upon the hall.

“Now!” she cried.

She led the Templars and her companions through the back of the Chantry hall and into an open, ruined shrine. She did not see the demon, but she heard its hissing voice all around her still.

“I touched so much of you! But you are selfish with your glory. Now I’m no one.”

She could see the Breach in the distance, and her eyes were upon it when the demon finally tore itself out of the ground. She flailed back, but Cole caught her.

“Dark and desperate, death to make yourself alive. I used to be like you!” he spat. “I’m not anymore. You shouldn’t be, either.”

“Kill it?”

“Kill it!”

-:-:-:-:-

By the end of the battle, Ixchel was sobbing for breath. Her ribs burned as though she had been ravaged by Envy’s claws, but she could not find any wounds. She forced herself to stand up, leaning heavily on her axe to stare at its eyeless face as it succumbed. Cole was nowhere to be seen.

“Get that,” she barked at Varric as its gullet poured forth relics from its previous meals. She turned to meet Barris and the remaining Templars.

“The demon is dead! Andraste be praised; she shielded you from its touch.”

Ixchel coughed, and it came out wet and ragged. She frowned, tasting blood on her lips.

“We’ve numbers across Thedas, but we let this happen. Our officers either failed to see it or were complicit. The Templars are ready to hear what the Inquisition needs of us.”

She was keenly aware of their eyes looking past her, at the Breach that swirled in the sky. She swallowed, worked her tongue around her dry and cracking lips.

“There was corruption here,” she rasped, “but I also see valor, and honor, in each of you who stood fast. Rise tall again. Help the Inquisition seal the Breach before it swallows us all.”

She felt her knees tremble, and she clutched at her axe more tightly. “But hear me speak plainly, Templars. I would have you make your choices with open eyes.” Her voice shook; she had spent herself for them, to save them, to shield them—and she knew that now they could still decide to scorn her efforts in favor of their ingrained bigotry. But she would not have the Templars be slaves to her leash, nor would she make promises she did not intend to keep.

“The Mages were _also_ deceived by agents of this Elder One. They were no weaker, but also no stronger, than each of you. I have already offered the Free Mages a place within the Inquisition, to prove to the people of Thedas what they stand for.”

Cassandra gasped audibly behind her. Ixchel ignored her

“But that does not stop me from desiring the same for you, as well. For too long you have been told how to help the People. How much of that has instead caused pain? It is time for you to decide, down to the last.”

She took a ragged breath and clutched at her ribs.

“It was Compassion that led me here, and Compassion that shielded me from this demon. It is Compassion that stands beside you. Will you allow it to lead you into a new day, a new path for your Order?”

Ixchel pinned them with a hollowed, haunted gaze, and held her breath for their answers.

“You speak truths we should never have ignored,” Barris said, and he stepped forward from the Templars’ ranks. “The old Order is too broken to stand, and Andraste has chosen us to be the ones to rebuild it from the ground up. ”

Barris sank to one knee before her, and settled his eyes firmly on hers.

Behind him, he could not see, but each and every remaining Templar followed his lead.

Compassion stood in their midst, smiling, and watchful.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel managed to walk out of Therinfal on her own. They left the Templars to gather belongings and bury their dead in preparation for the journey to Haven. Ixchel could see the Inquisition camp in the distance, where she had been told that Josephine had gathered the surviving nobles.

She led the way toward the camp in stony silence. Her mouth was twisted against the bitter aftertaste of her experience with Redcliffe, with the Envy demon, and with the Templars. Her companions hardly dared to breathe near her, and they maintained a good distance between them and her. She felt their gazes keenly on her back, suspicion and distrust sharp in their eyes like daggers.

Ixchel’s nerves had been wound tight since she returned from the Blighted future in Redcliffe; she had known she was headed into an unknown, and she had been prepared for a fight with the Templars in light of a concurrent alliance with the Free Mages. She had been prepared for the chance that the Templar’s abandoned her, even after all her aide. She had been prepared to argue with Cassandra over that as well, for in these matters Cassandra was predictable in following her first instincts: distrust of magic.

And though the Templars had followed her lead, and though she had been bolstered by Cole’s aide, she had _heard_ the gasp Cassandra gave when Ixchel said she had brought the Free Mages into the Inquisition. And that betrayed gasp echoed in her ears all the louder in its contrast to the loyalty she had expressed when Ixchel raised the People’s flag in the courtyard.

She found her mind fixated on that sound, that stormy look, and it was compounded by Solas’s momentary doubt at he roffer for the Templars. Could she make no one happy?

Halfway between Therinfal and the Inquisition camp, Ixchel’s inner turmoil boiled over, and her body decided that it had finally had enough. Her knees gave way, and the axe she had so stubbornly clung to fell to the ground beside her.

“Sunshine?!”

“Herald!”

_“Ixchel!”_

Her ears rang as she knelt in the mud. Rain ran like rivers down her face, and diluted blood dripped from her chin down to the grass between her knees. She sobbed bitterly.

“Is this the price?” she begged the earth. “Shall I turn the world against me, to save it? My world? My friends?”

She bowed her head until her hair dragged in the mud, and she screamed to tear the heavens open. She screamed to tear the earth open, to split it straight to the Abyss. She screamed to breach the fabric of reality and reach back to the one who had sent her here, to communicate to him what hell he had condemned her to.

In the wake of it, none of her companions spoke. No one moved. No one breathed.

“Fuck all of you!” she wailed. “Fuck all of you and your pride, your _beliefs!_ Why are none of you happy? I saved them, I saved _so_ _many_ of them! Who cares if they wear robes or plate armor?”

She slammed the Anchor into the ground, and a ripple of its power turned the water in the mud around her into steam. She hardly noticed.

“They’re _people!_ They’re children, they’re lost, they’re _stupid!_ And all of them could be _heroes_ if we gave them the chance! The Elder One controlled them by making them _not people_ , made them _ideas_ , made them _choices_ , made them into a _war_. And I’m the only one who ever sees! Damn you!”

She covered her face in her muddied, burning hands and wailed again.

 _“Ma banal las halamshir va vhen! Tel garas solasan! Dirthara-ma!_ Dirthara-ma!!”

Ixchel did not know who reached her first. Perhaps there was not just one of them. Before she realized what was happening, Varric, Cassandra, and Solas were kneeling in the mud around her, touching her, piecing her back together. Cassandra dug her fingers into the back of Ixchel’s armor and pulled her back so that she was kneeling, rather than prostrated in the mud. Varric smoothed back her hair and steadier her with his solid body. And Solas—Solas pulled her hands away from her face and looked at her with the most honest expression on his face she had ever seen.

She widened her eyes to take it in, but her eyes were full of rain and tears. She still felt it: his searing admiration, the ferocity with which he drank her in. He bolstered her with his gaze. It soothed her churning insides, while Varric’s arms held her tight until her jerking, spasming sobs eased into heavy breaths. Cassandra’s bare fingers—she had removed her gauntlets—ran through Ixchel’s hair and tenderly over her pointed ears, conveying a tenderness that healed as much as it hurt.

Ixchel hiccuped pathetically

The rain was cold, and her weakness made her hands shake in Solas’s. “I—I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I s-shouldn’t’ve…”

“Hush,” Cassandra said. “I do not know what you found in Redcliffe, but if it was anything like what we just witnessed… You do not owe us an apology. We can discuss it later, if you like.” She tied Ixchel’s wet hair into a loose bun. “Do not fear, Ixchel. The truths that guide you… It is painful to be reminded of what we sometimes choose to forget. But it is a good pain, like a stretched muscle.”

“You know, Seeker?” Varric murmured, “You’re a lot smarter than you look.”

Ixchel laughed weakly, and she released Solas’s hand so she could wipe her eyes. “I don’t know if I can walk.” Her voice was a froggy gargle in her throat.

“Then I shall carry you,” Cassandra said. Solas picked up her axe, and Varric took her heaviest pieces of armor, and Cassandra hoisted the Herald of Andraste onto her back to take her to camp.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel fell asleep on Cassandra’s shoulder, and her dreams were deep and still. Cassandra woke her when it came time to lead the Templars on their way back to Haven; Ixchel joined Solas in the back of a cart so that she could sleep some more. On their second day of travel, Ixchel finally regained her voice, and enough of her fortitude, to finally address all that had transpired from Redcliffe to Therinfal.

At the next rest stop on their journey, Ixchel sent a raven to Cullen and explained the situations and Redcliffe and Therinfal and _begged_ him to maintain order until she arrived. He had written back swiftly, and his message was short and curt; she could tell that he had many angry words for her and that he had held them back. But it seemed at every new stop, Ixchel found a new raven with a new letter, each longer than the last, and they conveyed the ebb and flow of his ire in a way that was so very _Cullen_ it was almost endearing.

Leliana was strangely silent, until one day she added a short note to the bottom of one of Cullen’s treatises on the founding principles of the Templar Order: _Dead end on Celene. Need Josephine to get you in the door._

Josephine for her part had nearly run out of parchment, with how many letters she was sending. The massacre of Orlesian nobles had nearly sparked a war between Orlais and Ferelden, and accusations ran high against the Templar Order. While King Alistair tried to quell the notion that the Inquisition was an Orlesian army on his doorstep, Josephine struggled to assure Orlais that they, newly allied with the _former_ Templar Order, were not turncoats to Ferelden.

Ixchel did not envy her in the slightest. She was exhausted just from having a fairly amicable conversation with Cassandra, to explain all that had transpired.

“It _is_ as I said,” she had insisted to Cassandra.

The Seeker rode a horse beside Ixchel’s cart, and the weary Herald lay sprawled in the back of the cart with her arms and chin resting on its railing.

“A powerful Magister whose followers call him the Elder One has put powerful demons and a Tevinter cult called the Venatori under his sway. Though we had already contacted the Free Mages, and I had always intended to offer them an independent and equal alliance with the Inquisition, one such Venatori mage bent time itself so that he could give trap the Mages in slavery _before_ our offers ever arrived. That is what I found in Redcliffe: poor Fiona and her people thought they had no choice because they were given no choice, in the manipulated timeline. It is simultaneously true, and not true.

“I was warned of this time magic by another Tevinter mage, though he is sworn against the Venatori. When we confronted the Venatori, we were dragged through time to a day, one year from now, and I saw the destruction that the Elder One seeks to sow upon Thedas. It is as we learned in Therinfal: he plans to assassinate Empress Celene and lead a Tevinter takeover of the south. Once all are enslaved of submit, he will poison the world with red lyrium and use its power to feed his efforts to break open the Fade, until he can enter it himself.

“I escaped this fate, and now I am determined to avoid it. I thwarted the Magister’s plots. Perhaps Ferelden could have protected the Free Mages, but after the Venatori’s manipulation, King Alistair was in no position to grant them any favors. However, I have earned some goodwill from him by following my original plan to house the Free Mages. Just as we saw here that the Templar Order has been twisted from its original purpose, I believe that the Circles they keep have also been warped. Power,” she intoned, “is as Blighted as red lyrium. Those who hold it for too long become addiction, seek more. Even before the Seekers were corrupted by Envy, you ranked too few, and were too reticent to reign in the abuses Templars have enacted against Mages all over.”

Cassandra listened silently, but the furrow in her brow did not grow any deeper at Ixchel’s words.

“I suspected that the Lord Seeker perhaps had been twisted from his purpose, after what we saw in Val Royeaux. I never imagined…this. The face-stealer.” She chewed on a piece of straw contemplatively. “The Envy demon would have killed me and taken my place, if it could have. I saw what it intended to do with the power I have now, and the power I could have, were I to become Inquisitor.” Ixchel met Cassandra’s oblique glance. “After its defeat, I felt that more than even before, we need the Mages to be free of the Templars—and the Templars, free of the structure of their Order. The power structure, the way leadership is uncontested, and the way conscientious objectors were purged—even before the Envy demon worked its way into the ranks…” She shook her head. “I have so much respect for you, and for Cullen,” she said. “I know what good people do when they have faith in their own consciences and convictions. But when we are told to silence that faith, or not to question it…”

“I do agree,” Cassandra said. “Now that we have spoken at length, I see that your decisions were not made out of a lack of respect for the Templar Order but rather due to it. You and I… We hold the things we love to the highest standards. We believe in them so strongly. And that is why it hurts to see them fall short and become corrupted.”

Ixchel nodded slowly and then rested her cheek on her arm. She watched Cassandra rock back and forth in the saddle near her, watched the tully fog dance behind her as they passed through this chilly forest. No strange shapes appeared in its patterns; no demons whispered to her from the shadows.

“Though you see it through the Maker’s light, and I do not, I think we could agree on this: the virtues we hold dear are not unobtainable by mortals and their endeavors. It is not impossible for us to act with Compassion and Mercy. Others, however, have tricked themselves into setting those qualities on pedals far beyond their reach. We must remind them that they already possess them. Mage, Templar, Chantry, or the lay soldier alone on the field.”

“I see it as the spark of the Maker in each of us. It must be fed for it to remain alive, to grow into a beacon.”

“And you are,” Ixchel assured her. “I am glad of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first playthrough of Champions of the Just was like, "Wait. What. Is this the fucking Descent?! Is this Adamant?! Fuck me!"
> 
> So yeah I think it would _really_ suck to run to Therinfal immediately after Redcliffe. Imagine not having been prepared for Redcliffe and stumbling out of that rift, panicking about Celene and this Elder One and having seen what happens when the Breach expands--I think it's pretty reasonable to say "Well, fuck the Templars," and try to close the Breach ASAP.
> 
> “Ma ghilana'falon,” - you lead me, dear friend  
> “Ma banal las halamshir va vhen! Tel garas solasan! Dirthara-ma! Dirthara-ma!!” - You do nothing to further our people / you, with no hope, would abandon the people  
> Do not go to a prideful place  
> May you learn (the worst curse!)  
> 
> 
> _Ixchel needs a vacation. And some therapy._
> 
> _Good thing she's got Cole back <3_


	13. Your Hart Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/18/20

Ixchel woke one morning to find her head pillowed in someone’s lap. Fingers threaded through her hair and ran down her neck, massaging the aches that had developed over several days on the road. She should, probably, have been more surprised or concerned at the unexpected familiarity, but she was only filled with a blank, fearless calm.

“I didn’t want to wake you, but you were waking,” Cole said.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she told him. She rolled back to look up into his face, cast in shadow by his hat against the breaking dawn. His hands explored her face curiously, and she blinked at him slowly, wondering what he felt in the scars that puckered her brow and the ink that lay beneath her skin.

“This is when you feel small, _da’len._ Too many nights cradled in a place that holds the sky but won’t hold you. Envy saw fire and thought braziers, but it was always the mornings that burned the most. Dreamed companions killed in the light of day. Meetings, but no partings. Just mornings. Mourning.”

She blinked more rapidly as her eyes burned. “Yes,” she said.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Cole said again, “but the morning doesn’t wait. You need to hurry.”

Ixchel sat up quickly and nearly hit Cole in the face, but he vanished and reappeared in the empty seat beside the cart driver. “Your hart knows,” he said, and then he vanished again.

It was only then that Ixchel realized that Solas was still in the cart with her, and he was awake.

She ran a hand through her hair as they considered each other. “I don’t know,” she said, answering a question he hadn’t quite asked. “But I think we need to get to Haven.”

-:-:-:-:-

It was surprisingly easy to explain to Ser Barris why she had to leave them behind. The remaining Templars had been dealt a heavy blow, and they were in no condition to travel hard and face untold dangers in Haven. She suggested that they investigate other Templar garrisons in Ferelden—avoiding conflict as much as possible, but recruiting survivors as best they could—along their route, while she, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric went on ahead.

Varric sighed as he hefted himself up onto his charger’s back. “At least I got a few chapters done while we still had the carts,” he said.

“Chapters? Not of _Swords & Shields,_ I imagine?” Cassandra asked, too quickly.

Varric didn’t quite pick up on it, early as it was. “Nah. Haven’t sold a single copy of that in the past year. Interest just isn’t there. Been working on the latest _Hard in Hightown_ instead, ‘cause my publisher’s been sending me veiled threats for a a few weeks now.”

Ixchel hid her smile at Cassandra’s crestfallen expression, and she mounted her hart.

“Josephine, I know you’ve plenty of experience avoiding being stabbed in the back,” she told her sleepy Ambassador, “but I need you to try not to get stabbed in the front, either. Be careful.”

“We shall meet you in Haven soon enough,” Josephine assured her.

But Ixchel wondered what would meet them when they reached Haven themselves.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel planned to keep their nights short, and their days long, to cover the breadth of Ferelden in as short a timetable as she could. That meant little time spent chatting by the fire, and even less time for dreaming in deep sleep.

But that was where Solas found her, anyway: in her dreams.

She knew immediately that they were dreaming. There were no particular tells in the environment around her—their campsite from that very night, if her sleeping memory could be trusted—but she felt it nonetheless. Solas had done a very good job of dreaming up their campsite, all the way down to the exact stars and the sounds of crickets in the night.

He sat beside her on a log, and they stared into a campfire. Their sides touched, almost leaning into one another, and Ixchel thrilled at it despite herself. She had been caught off-guard, and her control over herself in the moment wasn’t the strongest.

Ixchel didn’t know if _he_ knew she was lucid in her dream, or if he had even planned on telling her that they were in the Fade, but she tilted her head a little to glance up at him and said, “I’d wondered how long it would be before we met here, Dreamer.”

If he were surprised, he did not show it. He simply dipped his chin and smiled faintly at her. “I try to respect what little privacy our traveling arrangements permit. I will admit, however, that I have attempted to reach your dreams before.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You have carved a domain for yourself in the Fade the way an experienced Dreamer might. The walls are thick and opaque; it is difficult to see through them, let alone break through to join you.”

Ixchel’s chest tightened as she swallowed a triumphant smile. “I’ve been working on that.”

“It is wise,” he said, “though I am surprised…”

“I’m not a mage. I think it’s this.” She held open her hand, and the Anchor glowed through her gauntlet. “I was just suspicious, when you all told me it was connected to the Breach and that the Breach was between our world and the Fade. We’ve seen how it behaves in our world—but it’s less clear how it behaves there.” She smiled at him. “I started trying to shape the Fade pretty early on. I think I’ve gotten better at it.”

“It is not only the mark,” he told her, and she narrowed her eyes in curious confusion. “You have fractured rules of man and nature—and you will shatter even more before you are done. ”

Ixchel’s throat tightened as his pale eyes seared her with their belief. He could not possibly know what he was truly saying to her, how tightly she clung to his words and how deeply she placed them in the safest, most secure corner of her heart. Few other things dwelt there: _Indomitable spirit. You showed me that I was wrong. I will treasure the chance to be wrong again._

“But you’re curious about other things,” she said, once she had regained the ability to speak.

“Indeed.”

He gave her a long, probing look, and then he turned back to face the fire. As the dancing flames cast him in soft shadows and deeper darkness, she tried very hard not to think of him in black, with a wolf pelt held in his arms, and a soft layer of hair growing back in. She did not imagine him with scars obtained at a fortress that she had not yet besieged. She did not imagine the man whose faith in her, even after such losses at Adamant, had never wavered.

His appearance remained as it had been, and his stare remained focused on the campfire.

“Your travel through the temporal rift at Redcliffe clearly frightened you,” he said, “and then you were taken in to the Envy demon’s domain of the Fade. I would expect either of those encounters to overwhelm anyone on their own, and yet you have survived both.”

Ixchel almost wished Cole was there, to read Solas’s thoughts aloud for her, but she was also very thankful for the private moment between her and her false hedge mage. “Yeah,” she said after a beat. “Well. I’m not gonna pretend that they didn’t fuck me up.”

He waited patiently for her to speak, and she took the time to think. As she did, she began to remove her armor piece by piece. She undid belt buckles methodically; she unlaced tight ties and loosened straps, and she focused on the routine of it to ground her. She could have just thought of herself in her other clothes, but this centered her, helped her retain control of the dream around her even as she thought of such fraught trials she had faced in recent days.

As she set down the last plate, she realized that she wore only more armor underneath. She sighed.

“Do you want to know what happened, just for the facts, or…?”

“I would know what hurt you, Ixchel.”

She looked at him with sharp eyes as he called her by her name, rather than _ma falon_ or _da’len_ or _Herald_.

“Envy had a more difficult time accommodating me than I did manipulating it,” she admitted none too proudly. “Cole—that’s what the Compassion spirit calls himself—helped. But I had no real hope that Compassion could sway the Templars off their charted course. It was up to me, and I was afraid.” She twisted her fingers anxiously in the wake of her past anticipation. “I wound myself up, convinced myself that they would rather fall on my sword, take the red lyrium, than ally with me after I so _brazenly_ admitted to treating the Mages like free-willed people. I prepared myself for Cassandra to deliberately misunderstand me, for her faith in me to shatter, for her love for me to…to not be enough.”

She trailed off for a moment, her hands trembling. She did not look up at Solas. She walked a fine line, and she needed to talk herself off the edge. “I still choke myself with the fear of it. We’ve spoken of faith and hope before. I felt—I _feel_ —fragile after all that’s happened”

His eyes drifted from the fire, slowly, to consider her hands. “At every opportunity, you hold yourself to your word: you place your faith in people. I was foolish to think that what I saw in you was blind idealism.”

She smiled, pointed and bitter.

“You live in constant conflict, then. Every moment, every interaction, tests that faith.” His words escaped him slowly, carefully, as though he was afraid that speaking them would test her resolve.

 _"Ma ebal'en'shiral."_ Her voice in the Fade wrapped around the Elvhen language more elegantly than her clumsy waking lips would ever allow. The depth of the words was apparent, and the Fade enveloped them with it.

“There are easier paths,” he told her. His voice was soft, and it carried the weight of a grave.

“But they are so much darker, Solas,” she said, and those sorrows were heavy in her voice; he did not, could not, would never know how well she knew that darkness, but she wished he could understand. “I _have_ walked them.”

The ghosts of another life, another world, pressed tight against her ribs, where she carried them in her heart. She felt fit to burst with the remembered pains. Ixchel reached for his hand and clasped it in her own again, lacing her fingers together with his and anchoring him to her there as tightly as she could. She was still trembling, pulled taught like a bowstring.

“My path is not easy, but it is easier to walk it with others,” she pleaded.

Solas turned his head to respond, but he caught her eye. What he found there mirrored a grief in his own eyes, a pain that she knew but could not relieve.

Solas dipped closer, and he captured her lips with his own.

For one stunning moment, Ixchel was divorced from body, from place, from time. She was just a woman, a beating heart, burning for him. But it could not last. Ixchel, fool girl, could not help the sad sound that escaped her, wrenched free by the knowledge of his departure, his betrayal, his _dinan’shiral._

She regretted it immediately; he drew back that very moment, and his pale eyes were already clouded with doubt. Where her lips had been, an apology bloomed on his mouth instead.

She drew her hands up to trap his face before he could speak or move. Her hands cupped his cheek, his jaw, and she dragged him back down to press his forehead to hers. He nearly resisted, but when she did not immediately try to kiss him, or pull him to the ground, or otherwise force herself upon him, some of the tension in his back eased. Solas slipped his arms around her, and he held her as she held him.

Ixchel was surprised at that. She was surprised that he remained so close, their breaths mingling between them; she was surprised when he closed his eyes and sat there, forehead to forehead, and waited patiently for her; she was surprised at his warmth, his trust. She was almost surprised enough to forget her sorrow.

Almost.

“I don’t want you to think this is a mistake,” she told him. Ixchel watched every muscle in his face, but she still could not pull out the truth from behind his mask. “I don’t want you to think this a mere dalliance in the Fade. I want… Whatever you are to me, Solas, I want you to walk with me on this path.” She punctuated her words with the multitude of intentions she had behind them, but still it was not enough. Nothing would be enough except the truth. And the truth? He would never accept. “But I leave those decisions to you. I don’t want you under false pretenses. I don’t want you because expectations, or pity, or—”

His lashes fluttered, and he opened his eyes to search hers.

She knew his answers. She would _always_ know his answers.

She released him, and she released the dream.

-:-:-:-:-

They traveled with the same near-silent urgency that they had taken up when they set out; Ixchel did not have the strength or the space to think of Solas and her dream. She was ashamed to admit that she was relieved when he seemed to likewise prefer to ignore it.

But then, on the night before they were to reach Haven, Solas approached her in the snow.

 _“Lethallan,”_ he said warmly, in that lilting voice she found so soothing and so sad. “Since we do not know what awaits us at Haven, I wanted to…acknowledge, the wisdom in what you said to me. I will need time to consider what you’ve given me, but on the eave of the unknown…is perhaps not the ideal time.”

She nodded. _“Ma serannas._ I agree.”

For a moment, he remained standing before her. He held her gaze intently. “But I have not forgotten.”

He turned, and she felt the chill of the night more keenly in his absence.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel could only guess at the reasons why Cole had warned her to hurry back to Haven. None of them were good, but none of them were immediately obvious as she strode through Haven. Mages and soldiers—both members of the Inquisition, and some members of the Ferelden army—flitted about, bowing and scraping and saluting, “Your Worship!” There was no particular panic, no storm clouds on the horizon except those brought by the Breach, no armies approaching from the pass...yet.

Cassandra was on edge at her back. “Cullen and Leliana must be in the Chantry,” she said. “I do not see them out here.”

So Ixchel made her way to the Chantry, where indeed she found Cullen and Leliana—and Vivienne, and Dorian, and Bull, and Blackwall. They turned as a group to face Cassandra and Ixchel, faces a rainbow of degrees of shock.

“You really do _know_ when to make an entrance,” Dorian said.

“Maker bless you,” Leliana breathed in relief. “A group of our soldiers have gone missing in the Fallow Mires. An Avvar warlord would meet the Herald of Andraste if we want to see our people alive again.”

Ixchel nearly laughed, because for all she had tried not to think about Corypheus’s inevitable reprisal, she had been prepared to see Haven fall within hours of her return. These aspirational Jaws of Hakkon were a welcome surprise. She schooled her face, however, because even if it wasn’t an army of demons, the unnecessary deaths of her soldiers was a sobering thought.

But then Bull bared his teeth, and her world ground to a halt.

“No,” she said. “No.”

“The Chargers are with them.”

“Bull, Solas, Cassa—no. Cass, you need to stay here.” She rounded on the Seeker. “You are a true Seeker. You will be needed. I trust no one but the three of you—” she gestured at Cullen and Leliana as well “—to handle the arrival of the Templars. I’ll have Varric and Solas stay here to help. Solas to advocate for the mages, Varric to mediate. Bull and Blackwall will come with me. We’ll head out immediately.” She glanced at the First Enchanter. “Vivienne, would you—”

“I have clothes to match the mud in _every_ province, darling,” Vivienne said. “Fiona is praying for a break from me, I imagine. I would come with you, if you’ll allow it.”

Ixchel nodded and turned her gaze to Dorian. He was eying Vivienne and Bull with distaste, but when he looked back at Ixchel there was no doubt in his eyes. “I wouldn’t miss the chance to see another of Madame de Fer’s stunning headpieces,” he drawled.

“Alright. Alright.” She let out a heavy breath. “Cullen, Leliana, Bull. I’ll get our people back. Let’s go. Cassandra, can you…?”

“I shall fill them in on the finer points,” the Seeker said. “Go. Andraste guide you.”

-:-:-:-:-

“Lace! Have you beat me yet for laps around Ferelden?”

Light though her words might have been, Ixchel’s tone and face were sober. Harding accepted her extended hand and clasped it tight.

“Thank you for coming, Your Worship. Maybe you can solve this mess. The Avvar leader? He wants his people to fight you. Because you’re the Herald of Andraste. Why they chose the bog… Maybe it has something to do with one of their nature gods. But I think their leader’s just a boastful little _prick_ who wants to brag he killed you.”

“He won’t get that honor,” Ixchel said, “and he won’t have our people. Not for long.”

Harding’s jaw tightened, and she summoned a ghost of a smirk. “You’re not squeamish about undead, are you?”

“They’re not on my list of favorite monsters,” Dorian chimed.

“Really? What's at the top?” Bull snorted. “Mine’s dragons.”

“Scout, let’s go over where the Avvar have hold themselves up. What do we know about the land, the death, the undeath?”

Harding nodded and led her to a table set up under an oiled tarp and some slabs of rotted wood. The wind moaned through the cracks, and Ixchel shivered despite herself.

“I heard about your run-in with the Lord Seeker demon,” Harding said as she wiped her wet hands on a towel in preparation for handling their parchment maps and reports. “I heard some quotes from your speeches, too. I just needed to say… Your Worship… All of us are watching. We’re paying attention to you. Those frilly cakes and fancy robes and shiny armor might get in the way of _them_ noticing, but _we_ notice you.” Harding’s jaw clenched. “We see you. The scouts, the soldiers. Every word, every deed. We appreciate it.”

A surge of pride and loss rose in Ixchel’s breast as she watched the emotions play out in Harding’s sparkling eyes. She beamed at the scout despite herself, because in the other woman she saw the same beacon that Cassandra carried, the same beacon that Ixchel looked to and tried to keep alive within herself.

“And I appreciate all of you,” she said. “I won’t stop proving it to them.”

“You came here, after all,” Lace agreed.

“And I appreciate you, Lace.” Her eyes stung. “I appreciate _you_ very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tries to come up with one original elvhen translation*  
> *spends 13 hours on it*  
> *....*  
> *has two bottles of wine*  
> *decides to just publish the first one she threw together and go with it*
> 
> "Ma ebal'en'shiral." - my way of grief/sorrow/despair


	14. Sundered Skies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aight, I opened this fic and its comments to users + guests instead of just registered users. hopefully you have nice things to say! love to hear from you
> 
> 10/19/20

In retrospect, Ixchel had had very good reasons for not pitting this particular combination of companions against each other in her past adventures.

Bull and Dorian had struck up a sharp flirtation from the moment they met, clearly enjoying the verbal sparring, relishing every chance to push the other off balance with increasingly outrageous things. Vivienne and Dorian’s exchanges were vicious and cutting in a way Ixchel had never grown accustomed to, but she had realized at some point that they liked having one adversary they understood among the many unknown terrors they were to face. The Tevinter and Orlesian nobles all danced the same steps to different tunes, after all. Blackwall usually mediated any disputes between companions that Ixchel herself couldn’t, turned every company into polite company, held them to higher standards.

But Vivienne despised him openly, and once her pointed malice clouded the air, it sank into everyone else’s interactions; everyone was on edge, suspicious of each others’ motives. Dorian and Vivienne’s jabs became deeper and deeper. Bull and Dorian grew cruel instead of cunning. Any time a victim was selected, the rest piled on. More often than not, it was Blackwall.

Ixchel tried to grit her teeth—usually around a mouthful of mud, in the Mire—and push on without comment. She had always been well aware that their differences ran too deep for her to address; an uneasy truce was all she ever managed from them, at least when she was around. That had been months down the road, after she had a mountain of tragedies she could point to in order to demand their cooperation.

As the cold rain trickled down Ixchel’s neck and chilled her spine and soaked her underthings, despite all her layers of armor, and she ducked between the long, bowed legs of a screaming Terror demon, she considered whether she could dismiss all of them and just have Harding at her side. In the end, she needed to face the Avvar chieftain’s son by herself anyway—

“Are you saying you _wouldn’t_ rather live in a land where mages aren’t herded into cages like dogs?”

“Which land is that? The one where mages are feared and despised as tyrants?”

Bull tore off the head of the Terror demon and ichor rained down on Ixchel’s head. She stared up at Bull’s surprised face, framed above the empty shoulders of the demon—and then the carcass fell to the ground between them.

“Sorry, boss. Didn’t see you down there.”

Ixchel craned her head back to the sky and opened her mouth to scream, but instead, words came out:

“Do not call me _bas_ , do not call me Herald, do not call me Your Worship, do not call _him_ ‘Vint, do not call _her_ ma’am, do not call _him_ Furrows.” She gestured with her axe in Viviene and Dorian’s direction, but she still addressed the sky. “Do _not_ speak of slavery. Do not speak of _cages_.” Then it was Blackwall’s turn, and Bull again. “Do not speak of duty, and service. Do not speak of sacrifice. Do not speak of betrayal.” She reached up to wipe gore off of her face, and she shook out her hand. Then she clenched it into a fist. “If you’re homesick, if you’re afraid, if you’re jealous, if you’re _whatever_ , I don’t care! I do not tolerate abject cruelty in any form—against the helpless _or_ against the proud. If you have a problem, if you need a punching bag, _come at me!”_

And she looked around at all of them, her shoulders shaking with her anger. “All of you. All of you are cruel. All of you are being _mean_. All of you are smart enough to know that you are doing it; you are making that choice every time you open your damn pretty mouths. Make the choice to _shut the fuck up_ instead!”

She turned on her heel and strode off through a particularly deep pool. She wanted to meet the kindly Avvar Sky Watcher as quickly as possible to wash the exchange out of her mouth.

“You think my mouth’s pretty?”

Ixchel flipped her grip on her axe around so she clutched it near the head, and in the middle of the water, as corpses stirred beneath the surface, Ixchel rounded on Bull and swung the staff of her axe into his side. He was caught completely by surprise and staggered as all the breath left him at once.

And then they started laughing.

Relief poured through her, because after all, she and Bull were just thugs swinging sharp things around in the dark, and they spoke a common language. Even now, when they were still technically strangers, they understood each other.

She clasped his hand and ducked under a stray arrow, and they plowed on to the next island in the Mire.

On their way to meet the augur, Ixchel saw the last beacon and led her companions into the fight in strange silence. Even the Terror demons seemed to know not to scream at her right now. She killed them anyway.

“Good work,” she said breathlessly when they had cleared it. “We have a path free of corpses back to the shore. Great.”

“Can’t wait to use it,” Iron Bull said with more relief than perhaps he meant to show.

“The fewer of these creatures, the better,” Vivienne sniffed. “I hope the Avvar haven’t gotten bored with your hostages.”

“And that they understand how hostages work,” Dorian added darkly. Then, his gaze landed on the tear in the Veil on the next island in the bog. “What’s that over there?”

They approached.

“A tear in the Veil?” Dorian said disbelievingly. “It’s one thing to see a rift open. Or to know the Veil is thin enough for demons to slip through. But… I’ve never seen _this.”_

“A cheerful addition to any decent swamp,” Vivienne said dryly.

They had approached the Sky Watcher, where he stood guarding the unopened rift. Ixchel glanced at her companions warily, but they kept their lips pressed tightly closed. She sighed. At least they knew she did not need them making snide comments about the Avvar right now.

“Peace, lowlander,” the big Avvar man said. “My kin want you dead, but it’s not my job. No fears from me.”

“Thank you, Sky Watcher.” She smiled at him and tilted her head back to meet his eyes. She was sinking slowly into the soft earth, which didn’t help her already short stature. “Why are you here? Has the Lady of the Skies sent a warning in the crows of the Fallow Mire?”

“You know her?” He hefted his hammer over his shoulder, resettling himself as he looked at her more appraisingly. “Rites to the gods, mending for the bleeding, a dagger for the dying. That’s all I’m here to do.” He nodded in the direction of the stronghold where her soldiers were being kept. “The others picked up a blade for the whelp’s trophy hunt. But the Lady scorns those who die here.”

“The dead remain long after they should,” she agreed. “Have my people joined them?”

“Some injured, but they were alive, last I saw them. Someone’s trained them well. They killed more of us than I thought they would.”

Ixchel angled her shoulder back to gesture at Bull, whose chest puffed out with pride. _“‘Tremble at the ice-troll Hryngnar, guard your gaze against his wrath. Dead to dreams as dwarves below us, fools in folly block his path.’”_

“Oh, I like that,” Bull said.

The Sky Watcher hummed and contemplated her for a moment. “They say you are chosen by Andraste to Herald. But I have also heard you may be blessed by the Lady of the Skies.”

Ixchel took that as her cue to face the unopened rift. She extended the Anchor and clutched at its seams, then looked at her companions to be ready. They were utterly perplexed at her exchange with the Avvar, but that was status quo. The Sky Watcher was confused by her as well.

After the rift had been opened, purged of demons, and resealed, the Sky Watcher lumbered back to Ixchel’s side. “Lady of the Skies… You can mend the gaps in the air!” He held out a hand, slick with rain and gore, to touch her before any of her companions could protest—and she bowed her head to accept it, though she did not know why.

When the augur touched her, she felt something in her—something like the Anchor, something like Solas’s magic, something like the Fade— _resonate_. It was like he had plucked a string that went through all of her: the one piece that held her all together. And somehow he had identified it with just a press of his thumb to her forehead. She looked up at him with only curiosity.

“Ahh.” He nodded. “You do know the Lady.”

“Well I’m sure he’s not talking about our Iron Lady,” Dorian quipped.

“I am interested to see where she takes you on the _hjemrejsen_ ,” Sky Watcher said. “For now, my chieftain’s son awaits you.”

It seemed he had no more to say to her, so she nodded.

“Peace to you, Sky Watcher.”

Ixchel led her party onward through the mud, trying to ignore their curious stares. “So you’re not Dalish, but you’re called Lavellan. You wear the blood writing of their pantheon, but you claim no god,” Dorian observed.

She climbed over a ruined stone wall and tried not to look at him.

“You’re familiar with Avvar nursery rhymes and augurs, and you have a name that looks Tevene but sounds Orlesian… I wonder, do you even _know_ what you are?”

“I’ve said plenty of times that I don’t,” she replied shortly. Then, curiosity got the better of her. “My name looks Tevene?”

“Oh, we love smattering our names with a good _‘ex’._ Abr _ex_ is, for _ex_ -ample.” He beamed at her through the rain when she smiled despite herself. “The whole of the Magisterium is calling you _‘ick-schtel.’_ There’s an Archon who was named _Ishal_ , which is spelled _reasonably_ , unlike yours.”

“Nothing like it in Qunlat,” said Bull.

“You say you found it in an Elvhen ruin, my dear?” Vivienne interjected.

“Implying that the word I saw was graffiti from Tevinter oppressors.” Ixchel blanched. “I don’t know how I feel about that. But yeah... It’s always gotten me weird looks.”

“Whatever it was, if the meaning’s been lost, it’s yours to decide,” Blackwall said.

Ixchel pointed at him approvingly.

 _“Did_ you ever come up with a meaning for it?” Bull asked.

She had never really considered it. She pondered the matter as they cut through waves of corpses, and then broke through the walls of the fortress the Avvar had occupied. She didn’t have time to give Bull an answer before they were swarmed with Avvar warriors, and then they reached the blustery son of the chief.

“Herald of Andraste! Face me! I am the hand of _Korth_ himself!”

She said nothing in reply as she advanced upon him, her axe clutched in a wide two-handed grip. When his people started shooting at her, Dorian and Vivienne had barriers up over her before any of their arrows could even reach her notice—and then Blackwall and Bull rushed past her make sure no one else joined her in the battlefield.

The Hand of Korth was just as fearsome as she had remembered…and just as slow. He left himself wide open as he struggled to swing his mighty axe, and she was able to dart in and out of reach before he could pin her down for the most part. Ixchel had never liked fighting like this; the scars on her face were the price of her preferred fighting style, which was to get so close to her enemies that they tripped over her. The longer she spent in close range, the harder she could hit, and the less likely she was to hit an ally in the fray. Her axe dug deep, cut deeper, and her enemies usually had little they could do to stop her—arms too long, weapons too heavy, to be accurate when she was darting around their feet.

But then there were enemies like this, who hit so rarely in the first place due to their slow weapons that it didn’t matter if she was close or not—there was no stopping that swing. So it was better to not be caught right under it. That, unfortunately, meant that her blade didn’t have a chance to bite into the Avvar very far before she had to tug it free and run again.

Little by little, she harried him, until the blood and the bloodrage left him. At last, he collapsed, emptied out onto the floor.

“C’mon—Bull? The door!”

Bull beat down the heavy wooden door to the chamber where she could hear Inquisition soldiers calling, but he was too big to get through the entrance himself. Ixchel stepped in and found that the Chargers stood at the ready, blocking the other scouts with their bodies, and though they were unarmed they seemed ready to go down fighting.

“Herald of Andraste!”

“Chief!”

“What about the Avvar brute?”

“I dealt with them,” she said, beaming at them, because she had taken a headcount and found no one missing. “Is everyone alright?”

“Yes, Your Worship. The injured need some rest, but we can return on our own.”

Ixchel allowed the scouts to pass, noting that only a few of them were limping. Krem and the Chargers filed out afterward. They each nodded at her before they met up with Bull.

Krem trailed slower than the others. “They didn’t think the Herald herself would come for them.”

“Who, the scouts or the Avvar?”

He gave her an ambiguous grin, and he bumped her shoulder as he passed.

-:-:-:-:-

The Sky Watcher stood over the Hand of Korth’s body, a dagger in hand. He had slit the man’s throat.

“There lies the brat. His father, chief of our holding, would duel me for the loss. _If_ he cared enough.”

“Does your chief have much he cares about?” she inquired. The augur scoffed in reply, and she tilted her head. “The Inquisition has a purpose your chief lacks. Join me. Help us stop the Breach.”

“Perhaps the Lady of the Skies led us here, to help heal the wounds in her skin together. Aye. I’ll join you. Let me make peace with the rest of my kin, and I’ll find you where you set your flag.”

“What might I call you, Sky Watcher?”

“Amund of Edvarr Hold.”

“Then, Amund, be welcome in Haven.” She gave him the salute of the Inquisition, and she was warmed when he mirrored it.

-:-:-:-:-

Bull was incredibly jealous of the Gift of the Mountain Father. “We get back to Haven, I can get you a greatsword like you’ve _never_ seen,” she assured him. “Just whip me up a schematic.”

“Hey, Blackwall! What would your ideal blade be forged from?”

“Many famous Warden blades were made from silverite. It seems to work well on darkspawn.”

They were gathered under a thatch-roofed hut that had seemed slightly dryer than the storm outside; Blackwall sat close to the fire and carefully shuffled through some documents they’d found in the fortress that pertained to Grey Warden movements. Vivienne had retreated to a far corner with a fine fur coat and seemed to be meditating; a thin barrier hovered over her, just enough to keep the steady drip of the roof off of her. Dorian was also bundled up, but he sat near Blackwall at the fire.

Bull and Ixchel were seated at each of the two doors to the hut, cleaning their respective weapons and chatting across the span of it, allies caught in the crossfire.

“And you?” Blackwall asked Bull. “Clearly a man who enjoys a good blade. Bloodstone, perhaps?”

“Nahh,” Bull scoffed. “Bloodstone’s great at holding an edge, but that sharpness leaves it brittle. You may have noticed, but I’m not a finesse fighter.”

Blackwall nodded thoughtfully, then looked at Ixchel. “You seem well-acquainted with fine weapons,” he said.

“Never met an axe I couldn’t swing,” she said. “Dreaming of the day I can get my hands on volcanic aurum and dragon bone. Should cut through _anything.”_

“Dragon bone, huh?” Bull grinned and smacked his fist on the ground. “I better be there!”

“Cuts through shit like butter.” She looked down at the Gift of the Mountain Father wistfully as she thought of her last axe. Dragon bone staff, arum for the heart of the blade and tipped with stormheart. She’d _toiled_ away at carving the dragon bone, patterning it with intricate designs that she’d then inlaid with more aurum. For the grip, she’d wrapped thick strips of imperial vestment cotton that she’d embroidered with the names of her dearest friends. When it caught the light, it was like she wielded the sun itself in her hands: _Adhleadanal._

“I guess I’d go with dawnstone,” Bull said finally.

“Dawnstone? That’s even more brittle.”

“Yeah… Really damn pretty, though.

“It’s pink.”

“It’s _pretty.”_

Ixchel laughed.

“Why, my dear, I did not know that fashion was a demand of the Qun.”

“Usually the Qun doesn’t even demand pants,” Bull admitted, and he gave Vivienne a barking laugh.

“Don’t you wish you had a shirt, perhaps?” Vivienne purred. “Especially in this dreadful weather.”

“You say that like you have something in mind.”

“You could gleam like a dawnstone saber. A purple coat… Tight at the waist, slashed with silver. Emerald accents. Open at the collar to accentuate your chest.” Vivienne’s eyes glittered in the dim light. “Every woman will want you. Every man will want to be you.”

“Is your escapism working, Madame de Fer?” Dorian asked. His wistful voice was muffled behind his collar. “Because thinking of fine fabrics and an expensive wine is honestly just making me hate this place _more.”_

“You must miss the comforts of your mansions, traveling with us,” Blackwall grunted.

“I miss them. I do not require them. But please, continue to imagine me a pampered lady, if it makes you feel superior.” Vivienne sniffed.

“Would you like a silk handkerchief to wipe the mud off your greaves, Lady Vivienne?”

“It’s just mud,” she laughed. “Mud bothers me as much as your clumsy mockery, which is to say, not at all.”

“Do you _have_ a silk handkerchief, Blackwall?” Dorian probed. “I do not know what the sight of a fine kerchief would do to me in this state!”

Vivienne shifted amid her furs. “I do wish we had more proper Chevaliers in the Inquisition, and fewer…low-life thugs.”

Ixchel glanced at her obliquely, hopeful that Blackwall and Bull wouldn’t rise to her barbs. But she caught Vivienne’s eye, and the Enchanter seemed to realize something. “Speaking of the Chevaliers, wherever did you pick up the blade?” she asked.

“Wherever I was left as an infant?” Ixchel shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but the chill that had settled in her bones now made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. If only she had trained to be a Revenant and not a Champion. How ironic was it that, should she reach Skyhold and craft a new standard, that it would be the same design that was on the back of her fine, heavy armor? In a strange way, which could she say came first?

Ixchel looked over their heads and met Bull’s eyes. He was watching her with eyes that were just as canny as Vivienne's. She wondered if _he_ could place her. She wondered what he’d tell the Ben-Hassrath, or what they would find if they tried to trace her path through the world. No one could imagine the things she had seen—the things that were yet to be revealed to the Inquisition.

She lifted her chin to Bull, ignoring Vivienne.

 _“‘Theirs,’”_ she said.

“Huh?”

 _“‘Belonging to the People.’ ‘Theirs.’_ Ixchel.”


	15. Fereldan Frostback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/20/20

_Lady Lavellan,_

_Ser Barris and I reached out to our contacts in Orlais and Ferelden respectively. It is as you and Seeker Pentaghast had feared. Not a single garrison stands. Our agents found the same scene at each site: carnage, and that corrupted lyrium. Too many Knight-Templars to count were left for dead—most seem to have been stabbed in the back. They didn’t know what was coming._

_The number dead is beyond imagining, but it is far surpassed by those unaccounted for._

_I wish that this was the only foul omen I had to convey. Our people in Redcliffe are receiving reports from the valley—_

Here, the letter had continued, and been reconsidered, several times. Words had been crossed out with such force that the parchment dimpled.

_Red lyrium surface deposits. More than ever, bigger than anyone had ever seen. The Carta cells you routed have only been replenished with more men… And there are more rifts, with greater forces of demons than we had yet seen. Despair numbers among them._

_Haven is more lively than ever. Green recruits and the pious among them, but forces, too. We mean to say that we are defensible. The troubling news in the Hinterlands is more pressing than any matters here._

_Maker bless you for finding our men. Your personal involvement has not gone unnoticed by the rank-and-file, nor myself. Send them back to Haven, and have them bring word of anything or anyone you would like to meet you when you reach_ _Redcliffe. There shall be no delay._

_Cullen_

-:-:-:-:-

“Alright!” Ixchel’s clothes sucked loudly in the mud as she stood, Cullen’s letter in hand. The ink had run, and there was gore smudged on it from where she had gripped it. “Who’s going back to Haven, and who’s hunting dragons with me?”

Lace wriggled out from under the wreckage of a hut that had fallen down on them during their latest efforts to map the bog. “Oh, I’ve got to see this!”

“Depends,” Dorian said. “If I want dragon webbing, must I be involved in the slaying of it?”

“Yes,” Ixchel and Bull said at once.

“I believe Lady Montilyet requires my assistance in securing an audience with Empress Celene,” Vivienne sighed. “Do invite me to the next one, though, darling. You’re right. Dragon bone does catch the light so fetchingly.”

“Blackwall?”

“I’ve been having a hard time protecting these documents from the weather,” he grunted.

“You’re right. Take them back to Haven. I’ll let you know if I find anything up north. I’d have you pass on my response to the War Council, if it’s not a trouble.”

He dipped his head. “Not at all.”

Ixchel shook out the now-soaking parchment and glanced at it again. “Solas and Varric and Bianca. We’re gonna need some cover fire, and Varric’s got some insight into this Carta lyrium bullshit. Tell ‘em to bring their dragon-slaying boots.”

Blackwall’s brow furrowed. “You have those?”

Ixchel smiled and shook her head, but Bull grunted. “I’ve got a pair. They’re my good shoes. The ones for _dancing_.”

He waggled his eyebrows at Vivienne, and she gave him boots made of ice in retribution.

“Hey! Ow! That’s cold—you’re a cold, cold woman!”

“Positively icy,” she replied. “It’s the diamonds, dear.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel was decidedly joyful as she led her hart across the rough terrain outside Valamar. The sun was bright and warm, her boots were dry, her hair was clean, they'd dealt with the Darkspawn, and she was going to be facing the Fereldan Frostback soon.

“What tune is that, Sunshine?”

“Hm?” She hadn’t even realized that she was humming, though she had been swinging the hart’s reigns in time. She racked her brain for the words.

_“She would always like to say:_  
_‘Why change the past,_  
_when you can own this day?’_  
_Today she will fight_  
_to keep her way._  
_She’s a rogue and a thief,_  
_and she’ll tempt your fate!”_

Solas chuckled. “A merry account, to be sure, but not a Dalish hero, I think.”

 _She’d kill you for the suggestion,_ Ixchel thought. She shrugged. “Heard it in a tavern to the north,” she said.

“Sounds like my kind of girl,” Bull said with an appreciative roar.

Dorian sighed. “I must admit, your tavern jigs are much more lively than those at home. So much less _‘and then we killed all the heathens and put a Desire demon in our scorned lover.’”_ Ixchel gave him an alarmed look, and he spread his hands out. “See? Yours are much more entertaining for the non-socipathic.”

They picked their way across a river strewn with boulders; Ixchel crossed first, with her more agile hart, and watched as Dorian slipped and dunked himself in a particularly deep stretch. From how he emerged, spluttering and blue, it was also a particularly cold one.

Solas reached her side, and there was a flicker of amusement poorly hidden in his smile. She returned it with a wide grin.

_“Tel’harellen ma’ghi’lenas, lethallan.”_

She parsed the Elvhen slowly. “Who was the liar leading me astray?”

His smile became a little softer. _“Mar ebelas’ghi’lin.”_ He waited for any sense of understanding, and then he lowered his eyes briefly. “I mean only that a weight has lifted from your spirit. It is good to see.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped a little. “Probably won’t be for long.”

“Do you think of the tension between your Mages and your Templars, when you think of that inevitability?”

Ixchel shrugged. “Fear and power vacuums breed cruelty. All I can do is temper it. But, ah, no.” She shifted her weight to one side and lowered her gaze to the wolf jawbone on his chest. “Unless I can leave _Ixchel_ behind... The things I've seen...”

His ragged cloak rasped as he reached for her hand—the one that held the Anchor, and her hart’s reigns. She could feel the warmth and weight of his bare palm wrapped around her gauntlet, and it just made her feel heavier. “You are surrounded by those who would help carry such a burden,” he murmured. “Some more reverently than others. Or help you bury it, with the respect it may deserve.”

She reclaimed her hand from him and glared. He could not know that she had offered him the same, only for him to tell her that his burden was too heavy, too poisoned, that he would not allow her to carry it with him. He could not know that she knew of the ocean of his remembered sins. But he was smart enough to know that she had estimated his pride, had been listening to his allusions, that his offer was hypocritical.

“Could _you?”_ she asked him.

“It is easier said than done,” he agreed. “But it is easier to help, than it is to accept that aide.”

She was taken aback by the admission, though he made no promise to live by it.

“But you did ask me, _lethallan_ ,” he added gently.

Ixchel turned to press her face into her hart’s neck. “I asked you to walk with me, not carry me,” she replied. “I would have a companion I know, to trust, on that journey. I would know his enemies, his handicaps, his demons, and he would know mine. I trust you with my back, Solas. Maybe that is enough for you?”

He was quiet for a moment, and the space between them was filled with the soft sounds of the Hinterlands, and of their companions chattering and laughing as they splashed their way across the river. When Ixchel peeked out from her hart’s shoulder, she found Solas considering her solemnly. His hands were clasped behind his back. “You do not know what you ask,” he murmured.

“I do,” she insisted wearily, and then she turned to call out to their friends. “Come on! We’ve kept the mother waiting long enough!”

Bull threw his head back and roared, and she threw her head back and howled along with him.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel did not understand dragons. She respected them. She could predict them. She loved them. But she did not understand them, and she did not understand how this dragon—a dragon who had given her most of the burn scars on her arm, a dragon whose spawn had marked her face, a dragon who she had killed in another life—could look at her with such recognition in its wild face.

The Frostback landed heavily in front of her, and she had to sink the butt of her axe deep into the earth to brace herself against the shudder. As Dorian, and Varric harried the dragon from the back, and Bull charged, the dragon lowered its head and stared at Ixchel. Her lithe muscles coiled tight under her scales as it crept closer, ignoring Bull’s greatsword as it scratched her flank. Its wide eyes took her in as she straightened up and held her axe tight. Solas was racing toward her around the Frostback’s side so that he could raise a barrier over her before the dragon turned her into a standing column of ash.

But the dragon opened its mouth to scream, and no flame followed.

“Well met,” Ixchel agreed, and she flipped her axe in her hands—and charged forward to meet the dragon’s whipping tail.

-:-:-:-:-

“That wasn’t your first dragon, huh.”

Ixchel looked up at Bull and found him carefully not looking at her. After their triumph over the dragon, they had harvested the valuable dragon components and fished around in her nest to pick over the unfortunate carcasses she’d collected there. Then, they had settled down at the water’s edge to clean their blades and their armor. Ixchel had just stripped off the last of her armor and quilted under layers, and now she sat cross-legged in her leggings and sleeveless tunic. She had just been about to dunk her gore-splattered hair in the pool in front of her, before they stained it red with the blood from their equipment, when Bull spoke.

She looked up at him but found him pointedly avoiding her gaze. He had opened up one of the bottles they’d found near the lake, and now he stared pensively at the empty container.

Ixchel dug the fingers of her right hand into the crust that had settled in her hair, and she looked down at her elbow, her forearm, her bicep. The Inquisition’s mages had done their best, after this same Fereldan Frostback had melted an entire sleeve of her armor to her skin; they weren’t quite so raised, so sagging, so garish…but every inch of her, from her the dip where her collarbone met her neck, to her fingertips, was still covered in long-healed burns. She made a face at the sight and shrugged at Bull without speaking to her experience.

Then, he surprised her by probing more openly: “Wasn’t even your second, I’d bet. You’ve got too good of a strategy for them, better reflexes than skill alone would give you.” He grunted a bit and prodded at a particularly deep slash on his pec. “I honestly don’t know what to tell the Ben-Hassrath.”

“You’ve been quite flattering so far,” she said wryly. “‘Short as a dwarf, as disfigured as a whipping post, manners of a nug’?”

“I did give you, ‘charisma of a Herald.’”

“Whatever that means.” She rolled her eyes. “Drifter, Bull. Homeless, bastard, drifter.”

“Who’s fought plenty of dragons. Right.”

“Maybe I’m as much of a nut about dragons as Solas is about the Fade and Dorian is about a fine kerchief?”

Dorian had kept his distance after the fight, citing an uneasy stomach due to the stench. He hmphed from where he sat perched on a rocky outcropping. Solas had wandered over to the strange rest spot or shrine that lay on the northwestern side of the dragon’s valley, and Ixchel presumed he would likely try to nap there while they finished up. Varric was scribbling away in cramped handwriting every detail he could think to capture before they slipped out of his grasp, and he was ignoring them completely. Probably.

“Only thing you’re a nut about is being a bleeding heart, Sunshine,” Bull rumbled. He raised an eyebrow at her when she gave him an exasperated look. “It’s gonna be exploited sometime.”

“It’s called being martyred,” she snapped back. “Isn’t that a thing for you? Dying for the cause?”

He tilted a shoulder, then hissed a bit as it pulled at the wound on his chest. “It’s honor. It’s duty. It’s life. But I sure don’t care about it the way you do. They program that out of you. Or,” he allowed, “they try to.”

“I do have to agree with the lug,” Dorian called down. “Perhaps you’ll survive out here in the wilderness with an attitude like that, but you wouldn’t survive a day in court—in Orlais or the Imperium.”

“That’s because I would burn it all down,” she replied. “Please do communicate _that_ to the Qun. Maybe send them a caricature of me doing it.”

Bull nodded, but it seemed he was thinking deeply on another matter entirely. She felt her skin crawl, knowing that he was prying, that he was prying openly, that he had offered her the chance to spin her lies and she still didn’t really have anything to offer. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? The more she constructed a false history for herself, the more likely she was to be found out. It would be impossible for anyone to guess at the real answers, but she was well aware of how tenuous her relationships with the other major players on the board were—as a Dalish savage spy. To be found caught in a lie would be trouble.

She sighed and proceeded to wash her hair as she had intended. When she straightened back up and flung her hair back over her shoulder to drip and dry, Dorian’s eyes were drawn to the water glistening on her skin. For a man who had no interest in women, he had taken to staring at her quite intently lately. It made it harder and harder to look at him, to speak to him, because the more he looked at her the more she remembered her Dorian: the late nights in the library, sipping mulled wine in the cold and talking about his family, his upbringing, his lost loves, his scrapes with danger, his academic interests; the long rides spent bickering and mocking Orlais, coming up with more and more outrageous theories for Corypheus’s origins, planning daring dresses with scandalous hems for her next appearance in court… Every memory that had once brought her comfort and made her feel solid, wanted, real, worthwhile, now only twisted the knife in her heart that he’d put there when he’d brought her back.

They had talked about it. Talked about wanting to lay down and give up. Wanting to be removed from the equation, taken out of the games, and shut off their quick-spinning brains forever. There could be no inaction, no retirement, no keeping to themselves while they were alive. They cared too much to ever stop helping others. They saw too clearly how things could be. They wanted too much for the people they loved.

But if they could leave it? If fate would have it? If one day…if one day one of them decided…?

And he had denied her that. He had known what such relief had meant, and he had still brought her back not only to witness her ultimate failure and its consequences—but to live it all again.

She realized she was staring at him intently, and his brow had furrowed. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“I didn’t realize you wore jewelry, Ixchel,” he said. “A gift from a lover, perhaps?”

Panic immediately coursed through her, a shot of ice to the veins. His own crystal hung around her neck. The bright thing itself was hidden beneath the collar of her undershirt, so he had not seen the token itself, but the cord was visible.

“It is personal,” she said tersely.

His expression cleared, then became a carefully arranged picture of mischief. “Why, Bull, I know what you should tell your masters: the Herald is actually an unbound demon! I’ve heard about special pendants that allow spirits to walk in our world without becoming bound to a mage. Revani, I believe? Yes, an unbound demon sent by the Maker to guide Thedas into—”

“Into what sort of future are you trying to fabricate, Dorian?” She rolled her eyes.

“One that the Qun would be most disgusted by, of course.”

“So then a future where everyone is forced to wear full winter clothing, and all doorways are only ever five feet tall, and the beds are only ever six feet long?” Varric suggested, looking up from his notes.

“Yes, exactly!”

Ixchel laughed, less because anything had particularly tickled her, and more because at least Dorian respected her privacy enough for the moment to leave her be.

But as she set about cleaning her armor, she found her smile fading again. There had been a time when she counted on the fact that there was _no_ privacy between her and the Tevinter mage. And though that very same man had betrayed her so bitterly, she knew she was going to have a hard time fighting the desire to have a friend so close, who knew her so well. She recognized the absolute need to keep him at a distance, but Ixchel’s heart stuttered painfully in her breast thinking about it. Because she wondered if Dorian, as he was now, knew enough about forbidden theoretical magic to know that magic could even do what he had done. There was no question that he did not yet have the power to. But if he knew…? If he thought about it…?

Would he guess?

Would he stop her if she did it again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Tel’harellen ma’ghi’lenas, lethallan.” - the liar does not lead you, friend(kin) (perhaps a euphemism about depression)  
> “Mar ebelas’ghi’lin.” - your way of sorrow


	16. Behemoth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear from Vivienne's suspicions about her sword training, Ixchel was specialized as a Champion/two-handed warrior. She is also like, 5'3" and, at the time, only a teenager. It just makes me laugh. :)  
> 10/21/20

She had felt the rift a mile away, but it wasn't until she came around the corner that she heard the lyrium.

In her years with the Inquisition, she had come across Red Templars and their kidnapped slaves too many times to recall, and she had forgotten that they would set up shop in this corner of the Hinterlands. The sight of the giant cages on wheels, the weeping people inside, stopped her in her tracks. The song hit her a moment later.

Bull roared and threw himself between her and the Red Templar who had been about to jump her while she had her defences down. A barrier fluttered over her—so delicate, it had to be Dorian's—and she winced as an arrow snagged in her leather armor but glanced away before it could hit her skin. There was a veritable host of them: archers, warriors, a shriek, but at least there was no—

Behemoth.

Ixchel was caught blind by the swinging hammer-arm of the corrupted Templar, and it was by sheer luck that she managed to hold on to her axe as she was flung bodily off her feet and into the side of the slave cage. Her ears rang as the pain caught up a moment later, and she could barely make out the sounds of Dorian and Solas screaming for her over it. The lyrium song, sick, yet so sweet, was louder than ever. It was all she could perceive for a moment of clarity: the Call.

Ixchel rolled out of the way of a plume of red lyrium as the Behemoth summoned it, bursting, from the topsoil where she had fallen. She scrambled to her feet and screamed: “Bull! Bull! NOW!”

An arrow whizzed by her ear, and she ducked under another swing of the Behemoth’s arm. “ICE!” she screamed at Dorian and Solas.

“I got the archers!” Varric bellowed from somewhere to her southwest.

Between the singing of the lyrium and the roaring of the Behemoth and the weeping of the slaves, Ixchel’s brain had little space to think. She was just a body, being tugged between sounds and danger, and it was all she could do to continuously dodge the Behemoth’s attacks. At least the archers couldn’t get a lock on her.

She felt more than saw Bull’s presence on the other side of the Behemoth, and the instincts she had worked on for so long took over. Ixchel dug her boots into the ground to halt her retreat, and she gripped her axe all the tighter as she summoned everything within her to turn the tide.

She _absorbed_ a blow from the Behemoth, stopping its swing with the raised staff of her axe, and then with her in close range she rammed the pommel into what remained of its terrible face. It staggered back, only to be hit from behind by Bull. Red shards of lyrium stung her face as she took advantage of the momentary opening she had created, and she used the whole arc of her body to swing her axe into its chest. She carved into it, and the blow struck into the ground between its feet with an explosion of dirt and stone. Her arm, her shoulders, bore the brunt of the impact, and it seemed to wake something in her. Even as the Behemoth roared above her and swung down with its sharp cudgel of an arm, she raised the Anchor.

The Behemoth’s hammer of red lyrium shattered up to the elbow, and Ixchel screamed as the Anchor _burned_.

She tasted blood in her mouth; her bones were on fire with the agony of the Anchor’s meltdown. For a blinding moment she didn’t have the strength to stand—but she was the last child of Elvhenan. She was a Champion of the People. And she would _not_ go down kneeling.

She shouldn’t have been able to intimidate the Behemoth—it towered over even Bull—but as she drew herself up, with the Veil itself rippling over her skin, she locked eyes with it and saw it second-guess its decision to target her.

A blow from behind, in ribs already weakened by her axe, caught the Behemoth unawares and it rocked forward toward her. Ixchel swung—one—two—chopping through lyrium, through bone—and then she heaved her axe up and over her shoulder and _through_ the Behemoth’s head, and neck, and spine.

It collapsed in a rain of shards and blood.

There was a split-second of silence as she staggered up, her allies and foes alike staring at her. Her breath came sharp and hot through her teeth, and she put her foot on the Behemoth’s back and yanked her axe free.

“Who’s next?” she snarled.

The spell broke, and the Red Templars began to flee.

She and Bull chased them down, with Solas and Dorian catching them with blasts of ice to get in their way or freeze them in place.

When the last of them had been dispatched, Ixchel dropped her axe. It was ruined: its blade was snapped in half and what was left was chipped, its staff, splintered.

A wave of pain sent her to her knees amid the bodies of the Red Templars. She clenched her teeth against the pain but couldn’t help the ragged scream that rose in her throat anyway. Clutching at her elbow with her opposite hand did nothing to stop the fire that radiated up her arm from the Anchor.

Deliriously, she knew she had to stop it before it reached her heart.

Bull was at her side, shouting at her, but she couldn’t hear him. All she could hear was the lyrium, the pulse in her arm, the crackle of the Anchor—

Solas pushed Bull away and grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, peeled her away from her arm so that he could get at the Anchor. He tore off her gauntlet, her glove, until his bare fingers caught the skin of her palm.

Ixchel sobbed bitterly and jerked, as though to reclaim her hand from his, but he tightened his grip and pulled the magic out of her, siphoned it back down from her shoulder, through her elbow, back down to her palm, where he drew it into himself.

She bowed her head despite herself, forehead pressed into his shoulder. The lyrium began to quiet as the Anchor stabilized, and she realized that she was shivering uncontrollably. Her hand gripped Solas’s like a vice, and he held hers just as tightly.

“Are you still in pain?” he asked urgently.

She nodded shakily. “But it’s getting better,” she rasped.

“Something caused the mark to destabilize. Dangerously.” He surprised her by wrapping his other arm around her back so that he could hold her more tightly. “Are you wounded? Was it pain? Was it fear?”

Ixchel realized she hurt _everywhere_. Her ribs, her back, her neck, shoulders, knees even. She did her best to steady herself, to take stock, and slowed her breaths until she could hold them without sobbing. No broken ribs, but bruised, badly. Her collarbone twinged with an ominous, sharp pain, that lanced down her shoulder and into her arm. She still did not speak to answer him, because as her adrenaline was leaving her, she was left reeling in the aftershocks of what had happened.

There was another question he could have asked. One that she could not an answer.

_Was it the lyrium?_

Ixchel shrugged in reply, then gasped as the motion irritated her neck and shoulder. She remained bowed in Solas’s arms, her brow and cheek pressed close in the crook of his neck. She was enveloped in the smell of him, connected to him by his magic, and fate, and—

Ixchel hissed through her teeth and forced herself to pull away from him, even though it hurt to move, even though it hurt to be apart.

She had a decision to make, and she wasn’t sure if this were the moment. She needed to think, but she hurt.

“Shoulder,” she grunted. She realized that Varric and Dorian and Bull were ringed around her, staring breathlessly as they waited for any explanation of what they had seen. She shivered again, an aftershock of pain.

“That…that was a lot,” she said. “Ah… Ow… Um… Can someone go free those people? See where they came from? They might need to go to the Crossroads, or might need to leave with the Inquisition if they’re from far away.” She whet her lips, and realized her mouth still tasted like copper. Dorian was pale, looking at her. “Ah,” she said raggedly. “Someone check the bodies, too. See if we can bring anything back to the researchers. Find orders. Something— _ow, Solas!”_

He had raised a hand to her collarbone and pushed something into place that _hurt_. But as he held it there, his magic seeped under her skin and reinforced whatever had been injured.

“Fractured,” he told her. “It’s stable for now, but you must have it seen. Can you stand?”

“I…” She swallowed. “I’ll sit here ‘til we’ve investigated.” She looked around at the others. “Please?”

They nodded and scurried off to strip the bodies and release the Red Templar’s prisoners. But Solas stayed kneeling with her. His hand had remained on her shoulder—and his other hand had never left the Anchor.

She sniffled a little, despite herself. Solas mumbled something under his breath that she didn’t catch. It sounded like, _“Fenedhis.”_

“It’s going to kill me,” she said softly. “Right, Solas?”

Solas’s pale gaze would not meet hers. The taught muscles in his jaw were the only sign of his feelings, but at the same time, he had raised his hand from her shoulder and threaded it through the hair at the back of her neck. His long, delicate fingers cradled her head, his thumb resting gently behind her ear to make her skin crawl. He stroked the hot skin there thoughtfully.

“It can try,” he replied.

When he met her eyes, she recognized that he had come to a decision. She knew that look, and she feared it, because the last time he had looked at her like that she hadn’t been able to change his mind.

-:-:-:-:-

Solas’s magic held her bones together on the ride back to the healers at the Crossroads. Her composure, on the other hand, was rapidly falling apart. Her mind raced the entire time.

Why had the Anchor discharged? Why was it becoming unstable? She felt certain that it wasn’t solely because of the red lyrium, for she had encountered so much of it last time and it had never sang to her. She had never felt the Anchor build power while it was in the Blighted stuff’s presence.

Ixchel thought of the corrupting, sickening sight of the red lyrium idol that Varric had once found, then lost, until it wound up in Solas’s hands. After all they had done to fight red lyrium’s influence on the world, after all they had seen of its awful corruption… When she had read Charter’s report, it had felt like another betrayal.

He had spared Charter’s life in the moment, as though he owed Ixchel anything, and that had hurt too. Because it threatened to give her something poisonous in its own right.  
Hope.

Even now, after Solas had intervened, she felt that she could harness the discharge again if she wanted to. The power _thrummed_ in her bones, begging to be used. That had, once, meant that it was unstable and would kill her sooner than later.

Would she be dead before the Breach was sealed? Would she be dead before Corypheus had been thwarted? Would Solas even be powerful enough to take the Anchor from her before it was too late…? And if she died with the Anchor still in her arm…

Would Solas have any hope of his own?

-:-:-:-:-

That night, after they had been tended to by the healers, they spoke with Harding and arranged a caravan back to Haven.

“I, uh, might not have been quick enough to stop some of the ravens,” Lace said with a note of chagrin. “I think some of us—” and she pointedly did not look at the cringing scouts behind her, who even through their embarrassment were still whispering excitedly to one another “—might have been a little too excited to call you Dragon-Slayer.”

Ixchel sighed, but before she could demur, Bull crowed behind her: “I bet there’ll be a party waiting for us! Roast hogs all around!”

Varric chuckled. “Don’t think you know the good Seeker quite that well yet,” he drawled. “Sunshine’s probably gonna need you to fill that bodyguard role you’re always talking about.”

“Yeah, Varric’s probably right.” Ixchel shook her head and contemplated Lace for a moment longer. Then, she nodded. “Well, I won’t let them have a chance to throw a party or kill me. The mages and the former-Templars have had a few weeks to recuperate and squabble. It is time to try and seal the Breach.”

Her companions made sounds of surprise and displeasure behind her, but she remained firm. “With the mark acting strangely again, there’s no telling what might happen. It’s time.” She reached out for Harding’s hand. “I am ordering you to remain here, Harding. I don’t care if Leliana herself tries to drag you back to Haven, you are to stay.”

Ixchel looked around to all of the gathered scouts and soldiers who had gone suddenly very quiet.

“I was nearly taken out by a Red Templar Behemoth just to the south,” she said, addressing all of them. “After all that we’ve done to secure the Hinterlands, we cannot leave the villagers and farmers to fend for themselves against the Elder One’s red lyrium corruption. Not for a party, not for a pilgrimage, not for whatever you think might happen when I try to close the Breach. Do you hear me?”

She tried to meet as many of their shocked eyes as she could. “We are an Inquisition for the people, and we will not abandon those we were formed to serve. Now. Do you hear me?”

“Aye, Your Worship!”

Her scouts and soldiers hurried to salute, and she returned it, though it strained her shoulder. She tried not to wince.

Harding slowly lowered her hand. “They’ll listen,” she assured Ixchel. “I thought you’d be feeling more confident, given that you _did_ just slay a dragon.”

“That’s when you know you need to be humble,” Ixchel demurred.

“Sunshine, a word?”

Harding bowed her head, about to make her leave, but Ixchel caught her and swept her into a tight, one-armed embrace. Harding tensed for a moment, then returned it tightly, laughing. “Come on, Lavellan! What would Lady Montilyet say about your _image?”_

“If you held a title, Lace, she would say it was a canny move in the Game.” Ixchel rolled her eyes to ignore the knot that had tightened in her chest. She pressed her cheek against Lace’s, then withdrew. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Harding.”

“Make sure of it, Your Worship.”

Ixchel turned to face Varric, and he gestured for her to follow him out past the edge of camp. Once they were out of earshot, he still kept his voice lowered. “You asked me a ton of shit about what happened in Kirkwall. I think it’s clear I’ve seen my fair share of the red lyrium. What it does to people.” He glanced at her warily. “I know the look of someone who’s hearing it talk to them.”

She grimaced. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s been doing that since I got the mark… But today was different.”

“Were you planning on telling us?

“Of course, Varric.” When he seemed dubious, she turned to face him fully. “I’m worried. I know you’re all worried. But I know you want to help.” She sighed. “I’ve never ingested lyrium, blue or red. I’d never _heard_ it, myself, until we saw all that red lyrium after the Conclave blew up. I thought it was a weird magic thing, but it wasn’t like it was getting in my head or anything.”

“Until today.”

“Even then…” She rubbed her elbow, where one day once, her arm had been severed. “It mostly just freaked me out. The mark responds to me, I think. Usually it’s just a light show…”

“Does Chuckles have any ideas?”

“I had not yet told Solas that I’m hearing red lyrium sing to me, no,” she said, and her voice was sour, because the mage in question had just stepped out of the shadows.

Solas kept his arms behind his back, jaw tight as he looked her over. “You must tell me everything, Ixchel,” he said. There was a pleading note that belied his stern demeanor. “I cannot help if I do not know.”

“Well, you heard me,” she said testily. “It’s mostly just done its light show before this. I think it’s just coincidence that the mark destabilized while we were around red lyrium. And by coincidence, I mean probably caused by the fact that I was scared out my _mind_ about being near red lyrium.” She realized that Solas was watching her rub her elbow with grave concern on his face, and she stopped. “Cole hears it, too.”

She braced herself, as though the spirit boy in question was about to show up—but the woods were as quiet and empty as they had been. She was a little disappointed, but she assumed that meant he was off in Haven, helping.

Varric seemed confused, but Solas tilted his head. “Cole is a spirit of Compassion, Varric, who aided Ixchel at Therinfal Redoubt against the Envy demon.”

“And I walked _physically_ out of the Fade,” she said, addressing Solas. “I was in the realm of the spirits.”

She had been _dead_ , too, but she did not voice that.

“Look, my friends, my dear friends. We’ve been trying to get the mark to power up so that it could seal the Breach. Maybe this is what that looks like. Maybe once the Breach is sealed, it’ll…vanish.” She ended on a weak note, because she knew it wasn’t true, and because it was clear that Solas and Varric both had concerns that outweighed however much they might or might not believe her. She wondered what Solas truly thought.

“If you’re gonna start making optimism a habit, I’ll have to rethink your nickname,” Varric said eventually. “Don’t want it to be too on-the-nose.”

She shrugged, then winced.

“Just… Tell me if anything changes, Ixchel,” Varric pleaded. “That red lyrium monster was the craziest thing I’ve seen in a while. Wouldn’t want to have it get one-upped by that thing in your hand.”

She embraced him, careful of her injured shoulder, and pressed her cheek to his. Stubble scratched her as he sighed in her ear and gave her a hug in return. “You’ve done a lot of good work, Sunshine,” he said. “Had me writing more in a month than I did about Hawke in a year… Or maybe I’m just better about taking notes these days.”

“Please come up with a beautiful, poetic title capable of capturing my heroic elvhenness,” she said. “Don’t let the Chantry cut off my ears.”

He patted her on her uninjured shoulder and gave her a small smirk, though it was defeated by the sad look in his eyes. “Cassandra and I won’t let that happen.”

“I’ll see you bright and early, Varric.”

He nodded, and with a parting glance to Solas, he left the two of them to talk in the dark.

Ixchel prodded her injured shoulder and pursed her lips as the black-and-blue flesh twinged in response. But she didn’t look at Solas, and she waited for him to speak.

“It is not _my_ hidden past that is interfering with the one hope we have of closing the Breach. _Lethallan_ , please. If it will alleviate some of the stress, or the fears, that have caused the mark to destabilize… If not me, then speak to Varric.”

A stillness fell over her, and she stared into the darkness between the trees, and she stared past the darkness. That strain in his voice— Was he afraid of losing her? Was he afraid of losing the Anchor? Was he appealing to her sense of pragmatism by framing it in terms of the mark because she had rejected him when he was showing care for her alone? She knew her Elvhen god, and she knew that all were possibly simultaneously true.

In the end, he had come to love her, to care for her world, and still he had burned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	17. In Another World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/21/20

Solas approached her—she felt it more than heard or saw it in the dark woods. His bare feet were so quiet on the grass, and his clothes barely made a sound as he moved. But she felt his power drawing closer. He was still nowhere near as powerful as he had been when he faced Corypheus at her side. And even that had paled in comparison to the sheer divinity that had rolled off of him when he took her arm. But he was gaining power, slowly but surely, as time went on. She could feel it keenly.

Ixchel flexed her left hand to relieve the cramping feeling in his presence, but then long, thin fingers met her wrist, and she did not stop him as they slipped lower to touch her torn palm. He laced his fingers with hers slowly, almost hesitantly.

The heat of him at her back was excruciating in its sweetness. She longed to lean in to him, to tilt her head back and look up at him and tell him with her eyes to kiss her. It had been a long time since she’d been able to give herself over to love without mistaking it for pain.

Solas pressed closer, and his right hand came to rest gently on her waist.

She so enjoyed turning his words back on him, letting him come up against them like an impassable wall. “You do not know what you ask,” she told him softly.

He chuckled.

“Perhaps we do not need to know how far the shadows stretch behind us,” he said, “to support each other on the forward path.”

His breath against her ear made it twitch, caught in her long, tangled hair. The weight of his hand on her waist was solid, a pressure, that she could not ignore. His thumb slowly stroked across the back of her hand, and with every pass it almost made up for the constant ache the Anchor gave her.

“I—”

She held her breath as he leaned closer his chin appearing past her shoulder; his lips encroached dangerously close to her cheek.

“You have an indomitable spirit, Ixchel. Your faith is as a pole star in the night.”

He had stopped himself. She knew with inexplicable clarity that he had been on the verge of admitting something important.

Ixchel sighed.

“Stars die,” she said softly.

He hummed against Dirthamen’s vallaslin. “And the best navigators may steer off course.”

_Var lath vir suledin._

_I wish it could, vhenan._

Solas offered himself to her, his flawed pride, his vanity, his exceptionalism, and laid them at her feet. For now, he could walk at her side and strive to see the world as she did—to put his faith in others, the way she did, even though it might hurt. Even though it would be hard for him, her proud wolf.

More than he could possibly know, she understood. She understood all that he was holding back, all the reasons he might stray.

She knew he would.

 _“Es'an ehn shia ga te'laim,”_ he murmured.

Ixchel acquiesced, and she tilted her head to accept his kiss.

Solas’s lips were cool in the night, but her heart burned. She let her back ease into his chest, where she fit so well. Without releasing her left hand, he brought his hands together around her to hold her more closely, without heat, never trapping her. His kiss ebbed and returned and coaxed her slowly to lean her head back against his shoulder and give him a better angle; when his tongue tentatively brushed against her lips, she met him with her own.

He tasted like fresh water and cool air, and nothing at all like red lyrium, and nothing at all like the Fade, and nothing at all like divinity—

For now, Ixchel did not allow herself to think of Solas as she had known him, Fen’Harel. For now, Ixchel tried not to think of Haven, which would be buried again soon. For now, Ixchel released her convictions, ignored the vengeful spirit within her, and allowed herself a moment of respite in a man’s arms.

They stood like that for an age, entwined so that perhaps vines might have time to grow up around their limbs and hold them in place. The twin moons shivered above them through the rustling leaves, bathing their stolen glances in silver between soft kisses and sighs.

When he pulled away at last and pressed his lips to her temple, his breaths deep and warm against her skin, she knew that neither of them would allow themselves such a luxury for long.

She turned in his arms and laid her head against his chest, beside the wolf jaw that hung there to protect his heart, and she nearly prayed.

_“Ir abel—”_

_“Teldirthalelan,”_ she mumbled into his sweater. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”

He tightened his hold on her and kissed her forehead again. They stood together, knowing that it would be the last time.

For once, she pulled away first. He ran his fingers through her hair lingeringly, and his pale, eluvian eyes were dark with grief in the night.

“In another world,” she said wearily into the murk between them. _“On nydha, Solas. Mi’nas’sal’inan.”_

His fingers trailed down her jaw to her chin, and he passed his thumb over her bottom lip once more.

_“On nydha, Ixchel. Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel.”_

Ixchel turned quickly so he could not see her tears, and she returned to camp knowing that she would not sleep to give him the chance to hear her where she walked in the Fade.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel wished she knew the back exit to Haven, so that she could have avoided the fanfare at the gates. It wasn’t quite a party, and it wasn’t quite a parade, but her hart was crowded with cheering pilgrims and soldiers as led the caravans into the camp.

“Now that’s what I call a welcome!” Bull thundered.

“I have to agree.” Dorian offered her a lopsided smile. “Tell me, don’t you think you could get used to that?”

“No,” she said shortly. "Enjoy yourselves if you'd like." She gestured for a cart laden with harvested dragon organs to head over to Seggrit, and then she led her hart straight through the gates and around the camp to the Chantry doors. She raised the hand that held the Anchor to the people who had followed, and then she slipped inside and looked around for what awaited her.

Vivienne was seated primly near a shrine, reading one of the Circle tomes that Ixchel had found and sent back for her. Fiona and another Enchanter were discussing something in a far corner, heads bowed and voices soft. Josephine and Leliana conferred over Josie’s tablet, pointing at the parchment clipped there and whispering.

The only person who _didn’t_ pretend that they weren’t waiting for her was Mother Giselle, and it was she who Ixchel approached first.

“Mother,” she greeted, “how fare the people?”

Mother Giselle bowed her head respectfully. “Many farmers still refuse to return to their fields—and if they do not, half of Thedas may starve. And the villagers in Crestwood have sent word that their own dead besiege them. People are vanishing from the hills of Emprise du Leon; perhaps it is the civil war, or perhaps it is something else. It remains a chaotic time for all in Orlais and Ferelden.”

Ixchel looked over her shoulder. “Thank you for your straightforward, timely report, Mother Giselle,” she said brusquely. “And the people of Haven?”

“Spirits are lighter here than in most places, Lady Herald,” Mother Giselle said. She had a thin smile on her face. “It has become a pilgrimage of sorts, for the curious and the devout alike.”

Ixchel bit her lip. “And the two factions?”

“The apostates, the Circle mages, and the former Templars, you mean? In some ways, Andraste had the simpler task. ‘Magic should serve man, and not rule over him.’ That tells us what should be. But it does not tell us how to get there. So many times the methods of men have undone the spirit of their goals.” She lifted her chin as Cassandra and Cullen entered the Chantry. “I believe all of your advisers agree that the past cannot be our blueprint to the future. Beyond that…”

She and Ixchel shared a long look.

“Thank you,” Ixchel said, and she turned. “Alright, everyone. Let’s convene.”

She led the way into the war room and went to her usual seat on top of a desk to the side. She massaged her shoulder as Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine filed in and took their places.

“Welcome back, Ixchel,” Cassandra said. “We have heard that congratulations might be in order.” She eyed Ixchel’s tender prodding with a wary eye.

“This was from a Red Templar, Lady Seeker,” she said in reply. “Dragon didn’t even touch me this time.”

The Seeker sniffed, but Cassandra couldn’t hide a small smile.

“The scouts say you seem like an experienced dragon hunter,” Cullen said. Ixchel shrugged unhelpfully. “Then perhaps we can’t be too mad at you for putting your life at risk before the Breach has been sealed.”

She gestured helplessly. “I put my life on the line every time I set foot outside of Haven. Come, friends. A dragon I can predict. It would like to fry me alive and eat me with its children. These Red Templar abominations I’m finding in the field…” She gave them an illustrative shudder. “They are bigger, faster, stronger, than anything you’ve encountered. One attacked me that was bigger even than the Iron Bull. It seemed like it was half made from the red lyrium. Apparently that’s what happens after you’ve ingested enough of the stuff.”

Their faces were grim, rather than surprised at the news. “We’re hearing similar sightings in the Emprise, and in Crestwood, along with more surface deposits.” Cullen handed her a stack of reports for her to look over later. “That’s to say nothing of the Orlesian civil war and the ghouls its bringing to light.”

Ixchel sighed. “Thanks, Commander. Alright, Lady Montilyet.”

Josephine ran her through the current finances: their income, their benefactors, new alliances, and the things she’d promised in return. Josephine’s quick letter writing campaign had staved off a Ferelden civil war and an Orlais-Ferelden clash, but tensions still ran high.

“Madame de Fer and I are hopeful that we have secured an invitation to the Imperial Ball at Halamshiral,” she said in closing. “The invitation has not yet _arrived_ , but we have heard promises. We will need to start preparing your entourage on Orlesian manners and order appropriate uniforms to be fitted to each of you, of course.”

“Vivienne and I will consult on the matter of the uniforms, if you can handle the diplomatic training,” Ixchel said quickly. “Thank you, my lady. Leliana, Cassandra…”

“Neither the mages nor the Templars are finding it easy to adjust to the terms of our alliance with each faction,” Leliana said. “There have been few direct confrontations, thankfully. We have even heard individuals citing your recruitment speeches to calm tempers when they flare. But they do flare.”

“The mages behave as though the world should be served to them on a platter,” Cassandra sneered.

“And the Templars question orders that do not come from their own people, and they hesitate to cooperate with soldiers who are not from the Order,” Leliana added.

Ixchel bowed her head as both women continued to list grievance after grievance. “How many centuries has their way of life been entrenched?” she asked after they’d seemed to lose steam. “And it’s been what, a month and a half since the Templar Order fell? I hope none of you here expect me to have a perfect replacement system ready by now.”

“It would have been convenient for you to have had one before you offered mages—”

“And Templars,” Ixchel interrupted.

“—complete freedom outside of any oversight—”

“Except for ours,” Ixchel added.

Cullen crossed his arms and tucked his chin into his mantle. “As you say.”

“Cassandra, I had heard you were looking into the Seekers. Any leads there?”

“A few, but I will need to pursue them in the field.” Cassandra bowed her head. “I do believe you have more pressing news, however.”

Ixchel sighed and hunched her shoulders. “In a fight with the Red Templars, I was nearly overwhelmed. I believe the mark reacted to my desperation and it became unstable. It discharged a great deal of force against my adversary and granted me some protection… But afterward, Solas said it was dangerously unstable, like it was when you found me.” She looked up at Cassandra. “I think it’s time to try and seal the Breach. Our forces, regardless of their origin, have had as much time to prepare as they ever will. Clearly the mark has gained some amount of power. And if this thing kills me before we ever even try…”

There was silence in the room as she contemplated her left hand through her glove.

“You left the bulk of the Inquisition scouts back in the Hinterlands,” Cullen said at last. “Why?”

“She fears retribution from the Elder One,” Leliana said. Ixchel raised a single eyebrow at her and wondered who had informed her, but ultimately, it did not matter. “Whatever you saw in Redcliffe has truly left its mark on you.”

“That’s one way of saying it,” Ixchel agreed. “Yes. And since you heard it ahead of me, I’m sure that the Elder One, wherever he is, has likewise heard of my intentions. Either he will try to stop us, or he’ll seek payback. Is what I’m afraid of,” she amended.

“But striking at Haven…” Cassandra ground her teeth. “There are _civilians. Pilgrims!”_

“When did that stop _either_ the rebel mages or the Templars?” Ixchel demanded. “Certainly, the Venatori and their god don't give a fuck!”

“Is there any way to send the defenseless packing?” Cullen asked. “It’s made me uncomfortable as well, to have so many gawkers flocking to our gates—”

Ixchel listened to them bicker, but her eyes were fixed on the large, ominous marker that was placed over the Breach’s location on their map. She hardly blinked when Cole appeare, crouched over it.

Her advisers scattered with varying shouts of shock and horror. “Maker!” Cullen shouted, drawing his sword.

“Wait!” Ixchel shrieked, lunging to grab at Cole. “He’s with me!”

She shoved Cole off the table and pressed him behind her, arms barring the rest of the room from approaching. He put his hands on her shoulders and peered over the top of her head.

“I came to help. I’ve been here for a month. I would have told you before, but you were busy!” he said to the others. Then, in her ear: “Some still want to hurt mages, like it would make them less afraid… Dreams again, woke up shaking. Stalking the camps looking for one who looks like her. Always some rule being broken. But not all templars listen when the whispers crawl around inside them. They try to protect people. Like Cullen. The good ones remember that mages are people.”

“You’ll need to learn,” she said nervously, “that people get scared when you appear out of thin air.”

“I wasn’t air. I was here. You just didn’t see me. Most people don’t until I let them.”

 _Not helping._ She offered her advisers a weak smile.

"Call the Templars!” Cassandra barked, but Leliana held out a hand.

“A moment please, Cassandra. I would like to hear why he came.”

“She helps people. She made them feel safe when they would have died—saved so many, so many more to save,” Cole said. His hat batted against Ixchel’s cheek. “I want to do that. I can help. It’s dangerous when too many men in the same armor think they’re right.”

“Cole saved my life in Therinfal. He helped break Envy’s hold on my mind, and then he helped kill Envy, and then I believe,” she posited, “he helped the Templars remember that mages are people, and that they were sworn to help people. Like he is. Because Cole is a spirit of Compassion.”

“I won’t be in the way. Tiny, no trouble, no notice taken unless you want them to,” Cole insisted.

“You’re not honestly suggesting we give him run of the camp?” Cullen protested.

“Well, I think he has had run of the camp since Cassandra got back here, at least.” Ixchel held up her hand in a placating fashion

“I’ll have people watch the boy, Commander. Never fear. But let’s not be distracted from the Breach.”

“You should prepare,” Cole said softly. “It’s already getting louder.”

All eyes in the room turned back to her and the spirit.

“Echoes, rushing back across us, ripples in a pond from a stone, but backward.” He paused. “But first, you sealed it. I hope it hurts less, this time.”

Ixchel’s mouth was suddenly dry, and her throat hurt. She placed her hand over one of Cole’s. She had noticed that her shoulder stopped hurting, at least for the moment. “Cole, do you know what I need you to do?” she asked softly.

He was silent for a moment, then he squeezed her shoulder and vanished again.

“He’s not bound, he’s not part of a blood ritual, he’s not possessing anyone’s body, he’s a pure spirit who crossed over and has stuck to his purpose. As long as we don’t ask him to do anything that would corrupt that purpose, he’ll not be corrupted.” Ixchel crossed her arms and pinned Cullen with her gaze. “And like Leliana said: we have bigger issues.”

“Does…does your hand hurt?” Josephine asked softly.

“Not very much.” She waggled her fingers where they gripped her bicep. “When it was discharging, though… It felt like it was going to stop my heart.”

“Then… For any assault on the Breach, we cannot know how you will be effected,” Cullen said.

“It seems almost too hopeful, but we should plan for a success,” Josephine piped up. “If the Breach is sealed, our alliances will need a new focus, lest they dissolve into their petty wars once again.”

“I wouldn’t call wars for equal rights _petty_ ,” Ixchel said dryly. “But that’s good thinking. We’ll need a plan. And trebuchets.”

“Have the trebuchets. _Don’t_ have a plan,” Cullen said.

“Then let’s work on that. I’ll tell you what I know of the Red Templars I’ve seen in the field. Let’s get Dorian in here to tell us more about the blood mages and the Venatori.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Oh. And before we do _anything_ , I need a new weapon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Es'an ehn shia ga te'laim,” - not all those who wander are lost  
> Teldirthalelan, - someone who will never learn (idiot)  
> “On nydha, Solas. Mi’nas’sal’inan.” - Good night, Solas. the intense feeling of missing something or someone that is deeply important or personal. similar to Brazilian "saudade" Lit. "The knife again in my soul."  
> “On nydha, Ixchel. Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel.” - good night, Ixchel. May the Dread Wolf never hear your footsteps.


	18. Perseverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/23/20

Ixchel said goodbye to each of her friends, new and old and older. She picked her way through Haven as her forces mobilized. Templars and mages who she had personally interacted with over the months leading up to their recruitment bowed and saluted and called out to her: “Your Worship!” as she passed.

She made a ring around the camp, starting with the training ground. Blackwall was working with some of the youngest recruits, and as she approached Ixchel could hear him giving a lecture.

“Remember how to carry your shields. You’re not hiding, you’re holding. Otherwise, it’s useless. Now, run through the paces again.”

The older man turned to Ixchel once the recruits had broken off into pairs to practice. “No wonder they scurried off so quickly. They want to impress you, Lady Herald. Pay you back for all the good you’ve done across Ferelden.”

Ixchel held her shoulders straighter. “I hope I’m the one who proves worthy in the long run.”

Blackwall allowed her a small smile. “The fact that even on the eve of what might be your greatest success, you’re still worried about what might happen to civilians in a surprise attack? Some might call it paranoia, but I think it points to a good leader.”

“So you’ve heard of my concerns.”

“Aye. And I agree. From darkspawn to Venatori, there are plenty of enemies who fight dirty. A retributive strike against civilians—entirely possible.” He nodded solemnly. “You can count on me, Lady Herald. If it comes to it, the civilians will be escorted out.”

She clapped him on the shoulder and held his eye for a moment longer. “Thank you,” she told him. _Good, reliable Thom._

She went in search of Cullen, but he was not overseeing the soldiers. Cassandra was likewise not on the training field, so Ixchel turned back and headed toward the armory. Bull and the Chargers were standing in a semicircle around their tents, facing the training grounds and watching the soldiers who continued to train despite the commotion earlier.

“They have good form,” Bull said as she approached. “Cullen’s putting his Templar training to good use.”

“You could always get in the game,” Ixchel said. “Bet Krem would like to see you get tackled by a hundred of my men.”

Bull cocked his head. “Your men, eh?” He chuckled. “I’ve heard you say that before.”

“I’m proud of them. Proud to fight with them, proud to be a part of what they’re trying to do.”

“You’re right. The Inquisition’s problem isn’t on its front line. It’s at the top. You’ve got no real leader. No Inquisitor.”

Ixchel felt the charge in his eye as he appraised her, took stock of her character, her small frame. She lifted her chin. “I would be willing to lead.”

He disguised his opinion with a grunt. “Why? Why you?”

“So often I’ve seen our council paralyzed by their inability to make a decision, their fear of the consequences.” She rolled her injured shoulder testily. “I care deeply about the people. I have a cause. I would step forward.”

Bull crossed his arms. “You almost sound like a Qunari, short stuff. My people don’t pick leaders from the strongest, the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions…and live with the consequences.”

She slapped a hand on his arm and squeezed it in reply.

Krem approached now with a bottle in hand, but she shook her head. “We’ll party the day _after_ we close the Breach, from dawn to dusk,” she assured them. “But I want you vigilant until that moment.”

“Sure thing, Sunshine,” Bull replied, but Krem held out a small tin cup. “You should still have a drink for luck.”  
It ended up being more than one shot of that dark shem whisky, but when she started to feel the burn spread to her face, she bowed out and went to find her next friend.

She clapped him on the shoulder and went to fetch her sword. The Inquisition arms masters had fashioned a new blade for her—weeks ago—and presented it to her as she came by their side of the camp. It was a greatsword as long as she was tall, weighted for her, made partly of drakestone. One of the smiths had etched embrium leaves into the blade, somewhat crudely, but the thought made Ixchel misty-eyed. They grunted at each other approvingly as she wiped her eyes and promised to stick in to a Venatori at the first opportunity she had.

Ixchel found Leliana on the steps leading to the gate, eyes pinned on the Breach as though her sharp gaze could sew it back together. Her lips moved silently in the shape of a prayer Ixchel had become familiar with over her years with the Inquisition:

_“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”_

“I used to believe I was chosen,” Leliana said softly as Ixchel joined her. “I thought I was fulfilling His purpose for me, working with the Divine, helping people. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing.”

Before Ixchel could open her mouth to inquire why they were having this conversation again, Leliana finally turned her gaze from the Breach and offered her a small smile. “You have reminded me that it was the _helping people_ that has remained constant, since the Divine’s death. Perhaps more than ever, there have been opportunities for great change. I hope that we can continue this even after the Breach is sealed, my lady.”

Ixchel offered her a small smile and inclined her head. “If that is your goal, it is a worthy one. I’d be happy to continue at your side.”

They ran over the logistics again: most of their soldiers and scouts would remain in the field, while the former Templars served as Ixchel’s primary guard force at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the mages gave her their magical reserves. “Once it is done, we can only hope they will keep their heads and hold their positions” Leliana sighed. “To most, sealing the Breach is an act of the Maker himself. There is no accounting for what fervor will lead to.”

Ixchel found Dorian and Solas conferring with Fiona, Vivienne, and an assembly of mages about how to focus their will and allow Ixchel to draw from it to power the mark. “Your staves are not your staves,” Solas said. _“She_ is.”

Ixchel did not understand most of what was being said, and it seemed serious, so she resolved to return later.

As she walked away, Vivienne split off from the group.

“I hope you haven’t ceded all control of your imperial fashion over to Lady Montilyet.”

Ixchel raised an eyebrow at Vivienne, because of course the First Enchanter would leave an integral war meeting to discuss _fashion_.

“Have an _Antivan_ outfit a military leader in court?” Ixchel rolled her eyes. “Antiva doesn’t even have an army. No. You and I will be commissioning something for the entourage, which means _you’ll_ be doing it and I’ll fawn over it adoringly.”

Vivienne chuckled.

“Madame de Fer, it is good you found me. I have a few requests for you. About the outfits.” Ixchel crossed her arms to keep herself from gesturing too much with her hands, which she knew might begin to shake—or burn with the light of the mark—in a moment as her emotions swelled.

“I must not be mistaken for a human. I must remain the savage Dalish Herald, even to the end. Don’t let them cut off my ears.” She had already developed an unseemly, wet knot in her throat, and she struggled to work past it. “Don’t let anyone misremember me. I was not part of a faction—neither Circle nor Chantry nor Order nor apostates. Don’t let them minimize me to a dragon slayer.”

“You have made that clear enough, my dear.” Vivienne held Ixchel’s gaze pointedly for a moment, as though she needed to be sure Ixchel understood that there was both a note of appreciation and a note of chagrin in her voice, all at once. “You are a godless heathen whose only moral compass is _helping people_ and defending the defenseless as part of your noble, ancient heritage.”

She lightly touched Ixchel’s shoulder. “You shall be a gilded leaf,” Vivienne said, “dipped in poison. None shall forget you, or those who followed you.”

Ixchel swallowed the glass that tore at her throat. “Thank you,” she said.

“Now if only we could find your mages a uniform worthy of standing behind yours.” Vivienne fingered one of the buckles of Ixchel’s fine armor. “I have placed you, my dear. A Champion has trained you. Perhaps it was a lover. Or perhaps it was simply a man who bore the same standard you do: that of the downtrodden. The irony of an elf fighting like a Chevalier is not lost upon me, and it will not be lost upon Orlais.”

Ixchel avoided Vivienne’s gaze.

“I will make sure it is a beautiful standard, when the time comes,” Vivienne said, and floated off.

Ixchel found Cullen and Cassandra behind the Chantry; they were ensured privacy by two guards posted out of earshot, but when Ixchel inquired as to their whereabouts the guards were happy to oblige her.

“You asked for my opinion, and I’ve given it. Why would you expect it to change?” Cassandra snarled at Cullen.

“I expect you to keep your word. It’s relentless. I can’t—”

“You give yourself too little credit,” Cassandra interrupted.

Ixchel felt ice shoot through her, and she paused at the edge of the clearing they’d found. Cullen hadn’t seen her, so fixated on the snow and the sky. He ran a hand over his ragged face. She hadn’t realized how harsh his withdrawals had become of late. How much worse had it gotten before he told her, last time, after they reached Skyhold? How much had he been hiding his pain then?

“If I’m unable to fulfill what vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this. Would you rather save face than admit—”

His eyes finally fell on Ixchel, and he cut himself short. “We will speak of this later, Seeker,” he said, and fled back the way Ixchel came.

“And people say I’m stubborn!” Cassandra called. “This is ridiculous.”

“He’s stopped taking lyrium?” Ixchel asked her softly.

“Yes. Has he told you?”

“I can tell it,” Ixchel said. “From his eyes.”

Cassandra bowed her head. “Mages have made their suffering known, but Templars never have. They are bound to the Order, mind and soul, with someone always holding their lyrium leash. I respected Cullen’s privacy by not speaking of such things around the war table. I thought that perhaps once they joined our alliance…” Cassandra raised a hand to her hair. “Cullen has a chance to break that leash, to prove to himself—and anyone who would follow suit—that it’s possible.”

“Stripping addiction from one’s mind is no easy task,” Ixchel noted quietly. “It can break a man.”

“It’s not a decision to be made lightly. Cullen asked me to watch him, for signs of instability and inadequacy. I have not found any, but he has asked that I recommend a replacement for him. I refused. I hope you understand why I believe it is not necessary.”

Ixchel went to sit on a crate nearby. “I agree,” she assured Cassandra.

“It would destroy him,” the Seeker said. “ He’s come so far… He can do this. I knew that when we met in Kirkwall. Talk to him.”

“I agree with you, Cassandra,” Ixchel said. “I will speak with him.”

Cassandra looked up at her as though she had only just heard what Ixchel had been saying. “Thank you,” she said. “I know that he has seemed frustrated with your decision to offer the mages an alliance of equals. But he and I both admire your decisions. You acted when you needed to, and here we are. I wish I could say any of it was my doing.”

Ixchel felt heat creep into her cheeks from more than just the flattery. She had already danced too close to the edge of her previous sorrows, her losses, and this was another reminder. “You’re flattering me,” she said, but before Cassandra could splutter and put distance between them again, she sighed. “I was thinking of you when I made those decisions. I swear,” she hurried, “I swear. I know you might not have raised the Standards the way I did—you care about the rules too much to cheat like that—but in your heart, I know we hold the same standard above the rest: the People.”

Cassandra’s eyes glistened in the shadow of the Chantry, and Ixchel knew she had to flee. She slipped off the crate and walked past Cassandra.

The Seeker’s hand on her shoulder made her pause.

“I am…glad that I did not kill you,” Cassandra offered.

Ixchel laughed.

She found Cullen in the cells below the Chantry. He had not lit the torches, and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she thought perhaps he might be sleeping down there. He was seated at a table that had been brought down, his head cushioned on his arms. His back rose and fell slowly, with only the whisper of metal-on-metal reaching her ears as his breaths lifted his cuirass.

“Cullen…”

He jumped so violently he knocked over his chair. “Maker’s breath!”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“I didn’t hear you enter. I—forgive me, Lady Ixchel—”

Something he saw in her face made him stop, and he looked down at the fallen chair in bitter silence. “How long has it been, Cullen?” she asked.

“When I joined the Inquisition. Months, now.”

She drew closer and picked up the fallen chair, righted it, and then pulled out a second to take a seat herself. He remained standing, still incapable of looking her in the eye. “It’s made you suffer.”

“Some go mad, others die… I haven’t yet.”

“Are you in pain?”

“I can endure it. I… After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn’t… I will not be bound to the Order—or that life—any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it. I can endure it. But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to watch me.”

“If Cassandra does not believe you are a risk, then you are not,” Ixchel said. “I believe in her, and I believe in you.”

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “For whatever good it does. Promises and belief mean nothing if I cannot live up to them.”

“Promises and belief mean everything if you _try_.”

Cullen raised his eyes to hers, then dropped them again. There were dark, heavy bruises under his eyes; his brow seemed clammy. She leaned forward to catch one of his hands and pulled him closer to her side of the table. “You give so much, Cullen. I’m not asking you for more. The Inquisition can be your chance to start over. If you want it to be.”

“I do,” he said, but his voice was so weak it was barely a breath. “I need it to be. You once asked what happened to Ferelden’s Circle. It was taken over by abominations… The Templars—my _friends_ —were slaughtered. I was tortured. They tried to break my mind, and I—how can you be the same person after that? Still, I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what? Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell, innocent people died in the streets, and I… I can’t be a part of that life anymore.”

He had returned her grip on his hand, and though he held it tightly, he shook.

“I believe in you, Cullen,” she insisted, almost desperate in how much she needed him to understand her in that moment. “I believe in you. Brave people, like you—choosing to serve a cause out of loyalty, out of pride, not blind obedience… It has inspired me so much. _You_ have inspired me, Cullen. The fact that you are suffering makes that choice, that daily choice, that _hourly_ choice, that _constant_ choice…”

Her tears could not be held back. She felt them burn down her cold cheeks, sink into the fur collar of the coat she wore beneath her armor.

His own breathing was coming more ragged now, but still he struggled to speak. “These memories have always haunted me—if they become worse, if I cannot endure this—”

“You can. _We have to,_ Cullen.”

The tension left the man’s shoulders, but instead of relaxing, he nearly collapsed. He bowed over in front of her, his free hand coming to cover his face as he was overcome with emotion.

She brushed back his hair and tucked a lock behind his ear. “I’m terrified I’ll fail,” she told him in a low voice. “So many people depend on us. On me. The Elder One is out there, the Breach must be sealed, and even now, there’s a voice in me that wants to give up. I’m scared for myself, and I’m scared of myself, Cullen.” Ixchel continued to tidy his hair. She fixated on each strand as she moved it, focused on the soft, warm skin of his ear, and not on the sound of his pained breaths as he stifled his tears. “For as long as we’re here, we’ll do our best. That’s all we can do.”

He wiped his eyes on his cloak and sighed heavily. When he straightened up, he still seemed cowed, slumped. His gaze fell on their joined hands on the table, and for a moment, they were both quiet and still.

Knowing where his attention lay, she did not stop herself from running her thumb over the back of his gauntlet.

“You… You’ve done so much already,” he offered. “For the people. For the Inquisition.”

“And so have you,” she replied.

Cullen looked at her so wearily it made her own bones ache. “I’ve never told anyone what truly happened at Ferelden’s Circle… I was not myself after that.”

“Angry?” she guessed with a wry smile. “Thought the worst of everyone around you? Worse of yourself?”

“I’m not proud of the man that made me,” he agreed.

“You’re a better person than you give yourself credit for."

“What…what is it that burns inside you?” he asked. “What is it that makes you want to lay down and… Forgive me.”

Ixchel felt the ice in her blood, felt her face fall flat and stony as he questioned her. She was the one who could not meet his eyes, and she, like him, turned her head to stare at their still-joined hands. He tried to pull free, as though he sensed he had overstepped—but she tightened her grip and pulled his hand closer.

She had to force the words out of her throat, coaxed from her heart like a poison until she hissed them out through her teeth in a mournful admission.

“I _don’t_ think the best of people. I don’t think the best of the world. Today, I play a part in staving off the apocalypse. But a new one will always be set in motion—if not for the whole world, then for the smaller worlds within it. All of Orlais. All of the elves. Or even just the petty retribution of a nobleman against a village, or a man against his wife… There is nothing I can do to make the world a better place. I can only keep it going. And what if, one day, I’m too tired? What if, one day, I decide it’s not worth saving? What if, one day…”

The tears in her throat took the form of a shattered ball of glass, and she coughed raggedly, almost a sob. “It only takes one day.”

“It only takes one day,” he repeated in a whisper.

“But today can’t be that day. Not for either of us.”

Cullen removed his hands from hers briefly to take off his gauntlets and gloves, and then his gentle fingers were on her face, brushing away her tears. His calloused palms were warm, and though there was power in his large hands, she felt grounded by the touch. “Cassandra watches me, I watch you?” he suggested with a soft laugh. “We need someone to watch Cassandra.”

“I can do that,” she said, but her smile was a ghost of itself.


	19. In Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins:
> 
> true canon divergence.
> 
> 10/23/20

She was too uneasy to sleep that night. Everyone had convinced her that they needed the day to prepare, and in theory she had agreed. But now she sat on the steps of Haven and looked out at where once she had seen an army crest the pass, where once a false Archdemon had rained its Blighted breath upon her, where once, but also not yet and maybe never, a would-be god had pinned her with his red lyrium gaze and cursed her name.

She was afraid to sleep.

“Ixchel, I don’t understand,” Cole said.

“I know,” she replied. “I don’t either.”

“You saved them, I see it, but you might lose them before you can save them again. You keep looking in their faces, seeing people who were home once, but home is gone, but we haven’t reached that place yet.”

He touched his forehead, then pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Pulled, blood that is not blood, a tiny trace of time. Lips struggling to shape language your parents lived. Singing stones, whispering waters, the physical and the Fade—lines on your face from another life, secrets the world doesn’t remember, you can’t afford to forget but you wish… _Ane mala vasreëm_ — How could you…? How are you…? Like me, but—”

“Cole!”

She reached for him with both hands and pulled his palms away from his eyes so she could meet them. “Cole, it’s overwhelming you. I’m sorry. It’s overwhelming me, too. But I’ll be okay.”

“The weight of all on you,” Cole said, “all the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are _theirs_. It’s so _hard_. But today is not the day.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“I wish I could help!” he cried. “I can’t stop things from happening, and forgetting doesn’t mean you stop doing things that hurt.”

“I know,” she said more firmly. “Cole, you can’t help me. Cullen will try. I will try. But I fucked up, and that mistake is just going to hurt me every day, and I don’t want it to hurt _you_. I told you, my head is a terrible place to be. It’s okay.”

Cole was a strange creature to hug, because even though he had a body she could touch, she could still feel him slipping out of her grasp like gas, and she could also feel him bumping up against that thing inside her that heard the lyrium and responded to the Avvar Sky Watcher’s touch. Her spirit, maybe. He was an even stranger creature to be hugged _by_ , because Cole the boy had clearly not had the chance to grow into his long limbs and lanky frame, and Cole the spirit had the unfortunate added difficulty of never having had _limbs_ before, either.

“Today is not the day,” he repeated. And he disappeared from her grasp.

Ixchel sighed and let her hands fall to her lap. She had just started to gather herself enough to go back to her hut when she heard a soft footstep behind her.

When she turned, Solas was walking away.

She did not follow, because Varric and Dorian were walking toward her.

“I don’t pretend to have understood anything the kid said,” Varric began, “but it sure didn’t sound like a lullaby to me.”

“You know, maybe it _helps_ to hear how fucked up my mind is.” She shrugged. “Gives me some perspective. What’s real, what’s just me trying to kill myself from the inside out.”

She tried not to meet Dorian’s eye, but she could feel his concerned frown boring into her.

Varric chuckled darkly. “You know not all heroes have to _die_ ,” he said. “Hawke’s out there. I just didn’t give him to the Seeker. I’m not saying it’s not hard to be a hero, Ixchel, I’m just saying you’re not _doomed_.”

“What _is_ your estimation, Varric?” Dorian asked lightly. “Think we could win?”

“You aren’t asking me to give odds on our beloved Inquisitor’s success!”

“What would it look like? Three to one?” Dorian laughed.

“In her favor?” Varric pressed.

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “I’m sure if you weren’t helping you’d say it’d be five to one, at least,” she drawled.

Dorian put a fluttering hand to his chest, and her eye was drawn to the sparkling pendant hanging from it. “ _Flatterer_ ,” he cooed, but she wasn’t listening.

“I’ll take the odds,” she said, a beat too late. She dropped her eyes to their feet. “I know Kirkwall is rebuilding, slowly. But people don’t recover so easily, right, Varric?”

“I think my point still stands,” he said. “Maybe we spend so much time calling Kirkwall a shithole, that’s all it’ll ever be. Gotta let go of _what is_ and think of _what could be.”_

Ixchel slid one arm around him and squeezed.

Dorian had sobered a little. “I agree, Varric… My father always used to say, ‘happiness is tempered by duty.’ Thought he was talking about his marriage to my mother—they despised each other, you know—but more and more… I _have_ to believe there’s a way to not let one spoil the other. Why, my entire life is a thesis on the subject.”

She tried to smile, but she couldn’t. She knew too much that he had not yet told her, and a smile would not come. Late nights lying in bed with wine, his hand in her hair as they tried to untangle Cole’s psychoanalyses, tried to figure out why they let things keep _hurting_ , why they thought hurting is who they were.

They never did come up with good answers.

“My life,” she said, “is a thesis on the idea that ‘knowing is half the battle’ is literal, because knowing has only ever _actually_ helped me fix a problem about fifty-percent of the time.” She sighed and rubbed Varric’s shoulder. “The fifty-percent of the time is usually about things outside my head but below the hole in the sky, by the way.”

“We’re gonna be alright, Lucky,” Varric told her. “And if you die, I’m pretty sure Cassandra’ll find a way to pull you right back out of sheer contrariness.”

Ixchel didn’t laugh.

-:-:-:-:-

She did not sleep deep enough to enter the Fade that night, and when she opened her eyes to morning light she couldn’t find it in her to be grateful. She had a suspicion, or a fear, that the Nightmare would be chasing her now—that Corypheus would have set it on her, especially after she took out Envy. But she hadn’t been able to find Solas, and it hurt that she couldn’t even catch him in the Fade.

Ixchel still could not find him before it was time to depart, and it was only once she was on the back of her hart, at the front of the small legion of former Templars and Free Mages, she saw him—but they did not have a moment for a private word.

She led her supporters up to the summit, to the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The Inquisition had destroyed as many of the red lyrium deposits as they could, but more still sprouted amid the fade-touched rubble. It sang to her as she approached, just below the surface. Her hair stood on end underneath her furs and her armor, and as soon as she stepped down into the lower level of the temple ruins, the Anchor began to flare in her arm.

Ixchel stood, dressed not in her fine armor but in her sturdiest, and tried to prepare for the fact that she was about to unleash a would-be god on her people.

 _Was_ she prepared to deal with the consequences?

Her sword on her back. Her closest companions behind her. Every preparation she could think to make had been made. Leliana’s scouts in the pass, the Templars watching the backs of the Mages who would help her seal the Breach. Blackwall and the Chargers protecting the civillians left behind in Haven while the host was here at the summit.

What more could she do?

Ixchel closed her eyes and tried not to think of false Archdemons, ancient Darkspawn Magisters, Elvhen gods, destiny, or the long walk through a blizzard…

She raised her hand and braced herself.

“Mages!” Cassandra signaled.

“Remember! The Herald is your focus! Let her will draw from you!”

As the mages centered themselves, she felt the hum of the lyrium grow louder in her mind. Everything was so much _more_ here, below the heart of the Breach. The pain in the Anchor was almost unbearable, but it was the feeling of hooks in her skin, in her spirit, drawing her upward. She followed that pull and allowed the power to connect her to the Breach. She reached higher, and higher, until the Anchor found purchase in the edges of the torn Veil.

Ixchel grit her teeth, sank her claws into the fabric, and drew it closed with the sheer force of her anger. She sewed it shut and sealed it once more with the power of the Mages. And she gave in to the pain a moment later.

She clutched the Anchor, and even through the thick layers of her armor she saw the green tendrils of magic crawling higher up her arm, ever closer to her heart. They were just past her wrist now, pushed by the exertion of the Anchor’s magic. And it hurt—gods, it hurt.

As cheers rose up behind her, and roars of exhilaration and relief, she fell to her knees and tried not to scream.

When screams met her ears, she did not know if they were hers or not at first. But Cassandra grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, and Ixchel broke out of her trance of pain, and she realized that the sounds were coming from outside the Temple.

“Venatori!” a voice shouted from outside, a desperate call for aide. “We’ve been betrayed! The scouts were murder—”

There was a scream.

Ixchel stumbled to her feet and reached for her greatsword. Cassandra shouted something, but Ixchel suddenly could hear nothing but the call of lyrium. It wasn’t just Venatori out there. She could feel a host of Red Templars coming up the side of the mountain.

She charged with the forces she had gathered outside to meet the oncoming enemy, and far below, in the valley, she could see the lights of an even larger army sweeping toward Haven. “Cut through them!” she roared. _“We must reach Haven!”_

A barrier fell over her, thick and heady with magic, and she knew it was the work of too many mages to count. “Protect each other!” she shouted over her shoulder, and she leaped into battle.

Vivienne found her first, in the heart of a throng of Shrieks. A barrier already shimmered over her, and with an extended hand a line of fire mines erupted beneath the first wave. It gave Vivienne time to summon a blade of solid magic into her free hand. With the thickest of the throng scattered, Ixchel charged toward another pocket and swung her greatsword between them, nearly allowing it to strike the ground before she spun her entire body to bring her weapon swinging around through the entire group of enemies.

She shrugged off blows as she pushed through the ranks of Red Templars. Her advance next led her to face a row of archers, which was suddenly broken as Ser Barris and Cassandra lunged in. With their shields, they knocked aside bows and men alike, and cut them down with their shining swords.

“Go!” Cassandra shouted. “To Haven!”

With the way cleared, Ixchel continued to run. She whistled for her hart at the edge of the crater, and she stood waiting for it for only a moment—she could not afford to be pinned by an enemy now. When the noble red beast flew by her, she grabbed on to its neck and swung into the saddle.

Solas and Varric were on her heels, grabbing random mounts and charging with her.

“Where did they come from?!” Varric shouted as they raced down the mountain. “Didn’t Leliana have scouts?”

Ixchel ground her teeth bitterly and urged her hart faster. The bells of Haven were ringing out to arms.

“The bulk of the force remains over the mountain!” Solas called out. “They must have sent these out ahead, to strike us off balance!”

“Well, they’re succeeding!” she snarled.

“But the Breach is sealed and stable! What can they hope to gain?” he replied. “Wait—Ixchel—your arm—”

“It’s fine!” she snapped. She bowed herself low over the neck of her hart, trusting it to take her where she needed to go. The truth was that, while the Breach was stable, the Anchor was not, and her arm was _not_ fine. It was on _fire_.

When they reached Haven, she rolled out of the saddle and landed on all fours to avoid a blast from a Venatori mage. They were swarming the banks, the walls.

“The Herald!” voices shouted from within, but she paid no heed. She needed to clear the first assault before she even risked the doors opening.

“Varric, get to high ground!” she called over her shoulder. “Solas—”

A barrier settled over her, and she did not look at him as she sprang forward into battle again.

The Venatori managed to blast the doors off their hinges, but they didn’t make it far after that. The Chargers were waiting for them, and with Ixchel, Solas, Varric, and a handful of soldiers at their backs, the Venatori were pinned. Cole joined the fray.

When the last Venatori fell, there was a moment of silence.

“Cullen,” she called, advancing through the broken gates. “There is a larger force, of Venatori and Red Templars, coming over the mountains. A _much_ larger force.”

“Haven is no fortress,” he replied, striding toward her. “We cannot allow the host to reach us. We must control the field.”

“Templars, man the trebuchets!” Ixchel called. “Mages and scouts, get the civillians into the Chantry until we can come up with a plan! Reinforcements from the temple are coming! Just hold these bastards off until they arrive!”

Cullen raised his sword. “Inquisition! For your lives! With the Herald!”

Her Templars shouted and moved out onto the field to defend the trebuchets. Ixchel could already see the mixed force of a Venatori-Templar forward unit coming up from the lake. Solas ran past her, and she felt the swell of his energy drawing from the Fade. The memories of earth, of stones, of heavy boulders drew toward him, and then appeared to crush a great number of the advancing foes.

She reached the trebuchet just as an arrow sprouted from its operator’s neck. “Get the archers, Varric!” she called, and she began winding the mechanism herself. In the distance, she could hear the screams of the false Archdemon as it circled the Temple of Sacred Ashes, searching for her. She wondered if Corypheus could see through it. She wondered if he could sense her.

The red lyrium was singing louder, through the Red Templars, leaking out in their dying breaths and in their scattered blood.

When she released the trebuchet, its rounds narrowly missed the dragon. As the payload carved into Corypheus’s forces, she felt the false Archdemon’s burning gaze turn in her direction.

“Run!” she screamed. “Back to the gates!”

A hail of Blighted stone and shrapnel blasted her back as she sprinted toward Haven. She was sent sprawling to the ground, which had already turned to mud from blood and battle.

A gauntlet appeared on her arm, hefting her to her feet. “What is that…that beast?!” Cullen dragged her toward the ruined gates. “Will the Chantry even survive an assault from it?”

“It must,” she insisted. “Until we find another way to evacuate the people! Wait—how did they get past us?” She broke free from Cullen and barrelled toward a group of Red Templars who had caught Lysette in a corner. Blood streaked across the soldier’s face, but she did not fight as though she were gravely wounded. With Cullen’s help, Ixchel beat back the infiltrators.

“Seggrit—I heard him shouting—”

Ixchel heard a scream and ran to the tavern. She could already smell smoke, and she spotted a single Templar running out of the building—

She ignored the Red Templar and shouldered her way through the debris in the doorway to find Flissa lying on the ground, bloodied around the head and face but breathing. She dragged her out of the building just in time to see Cullen strike down the agent who had set fire to the building.

They all ducked for cover as the false Archdemon swooped low over Haven and destroyed another building. “Seggrit!” Lysette cried.

“Adan and Minaeve went to get the medicine stocks,” a voice called out. Chancellor Roderick ran to them, and he scooped Flissa’s unconscious body into his arms. He stumbled a little under the weight but had already turned back to bring her to the Chantry. “We have most everyone else!”

“Right,” Ixchel said. She ran in the direction of the apothecary’s hut and found Solas kneeling beside Adan. He had been pulling a cart laden with supplies toward the Chantry, but one of its wheels had been hacked to bits by a Templar, who himself had been blown to smithereens by Solas. Adan had been injured. Minaeve was unconscious on the ground. “Bring him to the Chantry, Solas,” she told him. “I’ll be right after you.”

She started pulling Minaeve up onto her shoulders when she heard the dragon again.

“Solas!”

He threw up a powerful barrier above their heads, and the Blighted breath of the dragon struck it like the barrage of an entire river being dumped above them. Ixchel saw Solas bow under the effort to hold up the barrier under its weight, and she reached for him with the Anchor. “Use it! I know you can!” she shouted as she grabbed his arm.

He did not look at her as he siphoned the excess power out of the Anchor, out of her arm, out of her hand. The barrier held strong, and the dragon continued its flight over Haven.

Ixchel did not waste time. She pulled Minaeve into the cart, and then, with all her strength, lifted the cart off of its broken axel and dragged it toward the Chantry.

Cole met her there, with Roderick. Roderick had been wounded, but he did not seem to be so hurt as he had been when she had last seen him, the last time.

“Ixchel, we are not in a good position. That thing has cut a path for the army.” Cullen’s eyes were bright with battle fervor.

"The Elder One doesn’t care about the village,” Cole said. “He only wants the Champion.”

 _Champion?_ Ixchel liked that much better than Herald. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

“What?” Cullen said. “You can read him from this far?”

“He’s so loud. It hurts to hear him, but I can’t stop. He’s angry. You took his mages. You took the best Templars.” Cole bowed his head. “He wants to kill you, no one else matters. But still he’ll crush them, kill them anyway.”

“There are no tactics to make this survivable,” Cullen said fiercely. “We can turn the remaining trebuchets, cause one last avalanche to cover us all. We’re dying, but we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

Ixchel nodded, but she turned to Chancellor Roderick. He had sat down in a chair, clutching his wounded side, and his head was bowed. But he looked up when she knelt in front of him.

“Chancellor,” she began, “I know we have disagreed on many things, but I also know we are motivated by the same desire to help the people. Ease their suffering. Save their lives, where we can. You know this land, this stretch of mountains, better than any of us. Is there any way to lead the people out of here before Haven falls?”

He cleared his throat, rough and weary. His eyes drifted toward the symbol of the Chantry, hung on the walls alongside that of the Templars and the Circle. “She truly must have lead you here,” he rasped. “Andraste must have told you to ask me… she must have shown me. The people can escape. None would know it, unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage, as I have. It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start, it was overgrown… Now, with so many in the Chantry dead…to be the only one who remembers…”

She extended her hand to touch his clasped hands, wishing to stop him, but knowing she shouldn’t.

“If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident. You could be more.”

“Go,” she said. “Take the medicine, and get everyone out.”

“But what of your escape?”

Ixchel did not look at Cullen as she rose. She heard the marching of footsteps outside the Chantry, and her hand went to her sword—but then Cassandra threw open the doors. The Templars, the Free Mages, and Ixchel’s dear companions came through. She was gladdened to see their numbers had not dwindled much.

Still without looking at Cullen, she took a step in the direction of the door. Her people, her soldiers, called out to her as she watched them pass through.

“Seeker!” Cullen cried. “You must stop her.”

“What?”

Ixchel raised her chin and looked up at the sliver of dark sky she could see through the doorway. The last of her people were coming through.

“Herald… If you are meant for this… If the Inquisition is meant for this… I pray for you.”

She bowed her head.

“No!” Dorian gasped.

“I’ll need people to load the trebuchets. We’ll hold the Elder One’s attention until you’re above the tree line.” Ixchel worked her throat in vain to say anything else, but she could not. The lyrium song was growing louder; the pain in her arm, temporarily dulled by Solas’s draw, was building again. And she needed all her focus on that first step out the doors of the Chantry. If she spoke again, if she said anything, if she _looked back,_ she would not be able to make the choice that she needed to.

The Breach had been closed. The Inquisition was growing powerful enough—they didn’t need the Anchor to stop Corypheus from capturing the Wardens or summoning a demon army or assassinating Celene. They didn’t need _her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ane mala vasreëm— you are freed


	20. Tel'enfenim, Da'len

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/23/20

There was silence in the hall as the weight of her decision, of their hopeless situation, sank in to them fully. Cole returned from leading Roderick to the people, handing him over to Leliana with his information. Still, no one spoke.

“You can’t seriously intend—” Dorian began, and then he stopped.

They all knew.

Bull approached and put his mighty hand on her head. “Me and the Chargers will load the trebuchets. No need for more Inquisition people to fall. And then we’ll get out of there.”

She nodded silently, eyes still on the stretch of dirt just outside the doorway—over the threshold she had not yet crossed.

“I’ve seen you take down a dragon before!” Dorian insisted. “With all of us together, surely we can handle it. With that beast slain, their forces—”

Ixchel shook her head. She took her first step to the edge of the Chantry.

“There must be another way! You don’t need to commit suicide by Archdemon _alone!”_

She shook her head again, but Cassandra stepped in to her way. For a moment, Ixchel braced herself—but then Cassandra tugged her forward into a hug.

“There was a Templar among them,” she said, “I knew him from Kirkwall. Samson. He is a formidable enemy. ”

Cullen drew a sharp breath.

Ixchel hugged Cassandra tightly, her cheek pressed against the gore-splattered breastplate branded with the mark of the Inquisition. She could hear the Seeker’s heart thundering beneath it.

Cullen approached a final time.

“Let Samson… the Elder One…and that _thing_ hear you,” he urged.

Ixchel pulled away from Cassandra.

Bull and the Chargers fell in step with her—and Dorian, too. As she made her way through the burning village, a village that had already been buried and lost to her, she felt Dorian trying to muster the right words to stop her.

The Iron Bull saluted her once, perhaps for the last time, then went off to load the trebuchets out in front of Haven. The ones that hadn’t been blown up already, at least. “Aim for the forces!” Ixchel called after him. “I’ll handle the mountain once you’ve gone.”

The Chargers ran off, and Ixchel hurried toward the last trebuchet. Red Templars and Venatori mages were already climbing over the walls. “See?” Dorian cried. “Alone, this would be madness!”

“He is correct.”

Solas and Varric joined them, and she didn’t have time to protest before they were engaged with the band of enemies. She had to focus, had to load the trebuchet, had to wind it, crank it, aim it—

“Perhaps we could trigger the trebuchet from afar!” Dorian called as he swatted fireballs at a Shriek.

Ixchel’s jaw twinged with pain from how tightly she had clenched it, and she abandoned the trebuchet for a moment to stalk toward him. She grabbed a fistful of his cloak and dragged him out of the way of a blow, snarling:

“I _didn’t_ have a _choice_ getting into this mess, Dorian Pavus,” she snapped. “I _never_ had a choice. I have a choice of how I get _out_ of it. Don’t take that from me too!”

His eyes were wide. His lips parted in shock.

She threw him aside and swung her greatsword in an arc over her head and through a Venatori mage.

“The trebuchets!” Varric called, hearing the Chargers cheer.

“That’s your cue,” she replied. She shook blood off of her sword and approached the trebuchet again. “All of you. Go. The Archdemon will be on us soon.”

For a moment, none of them moved. She could see the Chargers in the distance as they ran back toward the Chantry.

Ixchel hardened her heart, hardened her face, and took a threatening step toward Solas, Varric, and Dorian.

_“Go!”_

Absolute agony streaked Varric’s face, and disbelief clouded Dorian’s—but they heeded her at last. Only Solas remained, and her shoulders bowed under the weight of all she knew was to come. An admission, a question, rose to her mouth, but she could not spit it out.

He did not close the distance between them. He simply stood, taking in the last sight of her.

“You have walked a lonely path,” he said, voice soft. “I am sorry it led you here.” He bowed his head. _“Dareth shiral…vhenan.”_

Ixchel watched him leave, and she stood in the silence left behind and stared up at the stars. She thought of what it might be like, to float among them, to dance between them from light to light. Perhaps she would be able to, after all this was through.

They were soon blocked out by the sight of the false Archdemon. It landed nearby, lumbered towards her with its Blighted body, screamed at her. She did not flinch, and she looked to where Corypheus was approaching. The song of the red lyrium had swelled to a crescendo. It was almost enough to make out the words, the rhythm, the _intent_ , but not quite. The false Archdemon raised its head to the heavens and roared across the Frostbacks. She covered her ears.

“Pretender!” Corypheus roared. “You toy with forces beyond your ken. No more.”

Ixchel spat at him. _“You_ are the pretender,” she replied. “You sought a truth, sought a power, that was not yours to take. And look at you now, you Blighted piece of shit—”

“You will resist. You will always resist. It matters not.” He raised Solas’s focus orb, charged with Blighted power and blood. “I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

Ixchel held her chin high as he tried to pull the Anchor from her at a distance. The pain was nearly unbearable, but she had suffered worse from it. She clenched her fist and snarled at him. “Come and take it, bastard,” she spat.

“Enough!” he thundered. “You _will_ kneel!”

Ixchel screamed as he yanked the Anchor magically, and the Archdemon seemed to revel in her plight. It stalked around her while Corypheus raged. “Your will is no match for mine. By my power alone, I will return to the Fade, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this Blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty!”

He pulled her up, then looked at her in disgust. Over his shoulder, she saw the signal flare—Vivienne’s magic, she recognized the pattern—light up in the mountain.

Before he could tell her that the Anchor was permanent, Ixchel wiggled her fingers and gave him a bitter smile. “You want the Anchor?” she purred. “Here! Have a taste!”

It crackled, it burned.

The Anchor exploded.

She heard the _whip-snap_ sound of the trebuchet, and the echo of an impact that shook the very mountain to its core. The false Archdemon’s screams filled the air as Ixchel was thrown back from Corypheus, and the Magister staggered, wounded by the blast. Ixchel slammed into hard ground, and she tumbled, rolled like a rag doll—and then she fell beneath the roaring avalanche.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel rose to consciousness slowly. For an interminable time, she was a mind adrift in the void, with no body to anchor herself to. Then, slowly, she was aching lungs, wet with cold. Then she was aching ribs. Empty, twisting stomach. Sharp, burning ears. Scraped and bruised knees.

When she opened her eyes, she still had not quite regained feeling in her extremities, and she was almost not expecting to see her left hand lying on the stone beside her face. The sight disappointed her.

Seemingly out of spite, the Anchor flared.

She curled around it and tried to center herself. She has fallen down the mining shaft that the Blighted dragon has unearthed in the turmoil. Haven was buried once again.

She had hoped to be buried with it, this time.

Ixchel eventually raised herself onto her hands and knees. Her head spun so that she feared she might not be able to stand after all. She almost stayed there. There were demons in the caves, and demons in the blizzard outside. What was the difference?

Ixchel staggered to her feet and found that she had once again lost her weapon in the chaos. She would have no choice but to harness the Anchor if she wanted to leave the caves with her life.

"Cole?" she called, because she would appreciate nothing more than some company. She might need company, to keep her moving. Her legs were still half frozen, and the thought of sitting back down and waiting for death was a tempting one.

A shadow split off down the tunnel ahead of her, and a plumed Shade slunk toward her. It probably thought she was easy prey. But she was more nimble than expected—even by her—and she skidded past to lead it on a merry chase through the tunnels beneath Haven. She couldn't afford to expend the Anchor on a single enemy, not when she didn't know if she were going to die because if its instability.

When Despair entered the cavern she knew she had to end things that instant, or else it would find its way into her head. She was too vulnerable, too willing to lay down and--

_Futile._

She tore a hole in the Veil and unleashed its raw power on the demons gathered around her. Their shrieks and flailing arms did not give her pause.

Ixchel ran out of the caves and tripped right into the blizzard.

She was sent sprawling down the side of the smooth snowbank and screeched in pain all the way to the bottom of the incline. Something sharp dug into her chest, and as she rolled away she found herself staring into the shattered face of a dead Behemoth.

She dry-heaved into the snow and sobbed for breath against the howling wind.

It had been months since she had been torn out of the blissful void of death and thrust back into this aching body and this sundered world. It had been months since she had honestly doubted her ability to survive the Inquisition. Her only true worry had been for after Corypheus's defeat. Ixchel had never truly entertained the thought of dying before she had accomplished that goal. She owed too many people that assurance.

But she had stepped out of the Chantry that final time, left her companions and the Inquisition behind, and she had been determined to die.

As she dug her fingers into the snow and shuddered in the wake of her heaving stomach, she fixated on it again. Was the Blighted future any better than the one that Solas would put in motion with the Anchor taken back from her arm?

With heavy breaths, Ixchel forced herself to stand. How many years had she practiced stepping away from Despair and watching her brain's sick patterns from the outside? Identifying these spirals and holding them at arm's length, as though they did not belong to her, as though it were possible to tear out whatever part of her housed that terrible voice: _Futile._

So she identified the darkness that encroached on her waking mind and held on to it, but held it separate. But as she walked through the night and shielded her face against the bite of the wind, she still carried that piece of her, and it weighed her down like a millstone around her neck.

She had no idea where she was going, but when she found the barely-glowing cinders of a fire, something surged within her. She did not allow herself to stop and find succor in its coals. Instead, she trudged onward: small, shambling step after shambling step, and she did not look back. She knew she wouldn't see a trace of the fire in the dark, and it would be useless to determine whether it were because the fire had died or because she had traveled any great distance from it.

She kept her hands clutched tight to her breast inside her armor, as though she could protect her skin from the cold with more skin. And it was in a brief moment of sensation in her fingers that she realized she still wore a crystal around her neck.

Ixchel stopped in her tracks. She would soon realize it was her first mistake.

Her second mistake was thinking that by speaking the activation incantation, she would open a connection between a crystal that should not yet exist in this world, and one that might not yet exist on Dorian's person.

The crystal remained naught but a glittering shard of quartz in her hand, and the night remained empty of all but screaming wind.

Ixchel's scream of a sob joined the wind, hardly discernible from the callous voice of nature.

She mustered all the strength that remained within her, but she could not take another step. She lurched ominously; her bones felt frozen in her body, so numb with cold, so stiff. She had stopped for too long, even though it had only been a moment.

She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands, but she could not feel her cheeks. She felt like a corpse to her own touch, and of course she did—that was what she was.

"That is _not_ what you are," a voice said in her ear. "That is not what you are, child of Elvhenan, child of mine. That is not what you are, and that is _not_ what you will be!"

Ixchel knew that voice. She knew that voice because she had spent years hearing its echo within another’s voice. That voice had taught her ancient Elvhen. The voice that had laughed with her around Avvar campfires. The voice that had so bitterly cursed those men who would take a woman's heart and leave them with naught but pain, as though it were a gift. It was the voice of Morrigan, and it was the voice of Morrigan’s mother, and it was the voice of Mythal.

Ixchel looked up and found the golden eyes of _Asha’bellanar_ looming ahead in the darkness.

She was as regal as she had ever been. Her horns stretched upward, adorned with gold that glowed with its own life. Her imposing frame loomed tall, unbowed by the wind or the cold. She seemed to transcend the elements, and even at a distance, Ixchel felt her power.

Through Flemeth's eyes, Mythal took stock of the once-and-one-day Inquisitor.

"Rise, Champion," she called to Ixchel. "You will not abandon your People yet."

Ixchel stared at her.

“Rise,” commanded Mythal. _“Mala suledin nadas!”_

Ixchel’s knees had almost frozen solid, it seemed, and she groaned in pain as she forced them to bend, then straighten, to raise her out of the snow. She closed her eyes against the bitterness, and when she opened them, there was no one in the snow around her—and no sign there had ever been.

Ixchel’s lungs burned with the cold, burned with tears, burned with the pain of death, but still she found the words coming to her:

_“lath sulevin,_  
_lath araval ena_  
_arla ven tu vir mahvir._  
_Melana ‘nehn_  
_enasal ir sa lethalin.”_

She found herself shaping the words with her lips even when they cracked, even when they froze. Even when she had no voice, she sang _Suledin_.

The wolves and the wind sung with her.

-:-:-:-:-

“There! _It’s her!”_

“Thank the Maker!”

Ixchel fell to her knees with the Anchor clutched close to her chest. Cullen’s mantle swept against her face, and before she knew it—before she even felt it, he had wrapped her in his cloak and taken her into his arms.

“Today is not the day,” he told her.

_“Sule…sule…”_

Ixchel wove in and out of consciousness as alarm was raised through the camp, as healers were sent for, as her advisers began to argue loudly about the future of the Inquisition. She tried to bat away their words with her hands as though they were flies around her head, but her limbs would not respond.

“Shh,” Mother Giselle whispered. “You must rest.”

So she rested, dreamlessly.

She was aware of her friends coming to check on her, inquiring with Mother Giselle. She had no strength to even open her eyes—the most she managed was when Cole appeared lying beside her, and even then it was just to muster one conscious thought: _Go to them, Cole._

“You think that’s what you’re _supposed_ to say,” he whispered. “And you’re _right_. But they need you.”

Ixchel drifted between the void and the snow, and at some timeless point in between, she heard a soft voice whispering to her a lullaby:

_“Tel’enfenim, da’len,_  
_Irassal ma ghilas._  
_Ma garas mir renan…”_

She opened her eyes enough to see Dalish sitting beside her, and the top of Krem’s head from where he sat on the ground between Dalish’s legs. Ixchel could feel the company of the Chargers all around, and Dalish singing softly:

_“Tel’enara bellana bana’vhenadahl._  
_sethana ir san’shiral, mala tel’halani._  
_Ir sa’vir te’suledin var bana’vallaslin,_  
_Vora’nadas san banal’him emma abel revas._  
_Ir tela’ena glandival,_  
_vir amin tel’hanin._  
_Ir tela las ir Fen halam,_  
_vir am’tela’elvahen.”_

-:-:-:-:-

When she woke, she was still a composite of aching ribs, wet and ragged lungs, bruised knees, and burning ears—but she was warm. She was wrapped in a thick fur, and she could feel the press of enchanted stones lining her cot, warming her. She coughed, then took a gasping breath.

Her friends still argued.

“They’ve been at it…for hours?” she rasped.

“They have that luxury, thanks to you,” Giselle replied. “With time to doubt, we turn to blame. But the enemy has not followed. We are not sure where we are, but I will count that as a blessing.”

Ixchel sighed.

“In-fighting might threaten as much as this Elder One,” the Mother said with a note of mourning in her voice.

“He might think I’m dead,” Ixchel said wistfully.

“Or he might be girding for another attack.”

“If they can’t decide on a forward plan, I need to—”

“Another heated voice won’t help. Even yours.” Giselle paused. “Perhaps especially yours. Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors witnessed. We saw our defender stand. And fall. And now we have seen her return.”

“I did not die,” Ixchel said. “Not this time.”

“But the people know what they saw. Or perhaps what they needed to see. Of course, you did not die, and the dead cannot come across the Veil. But the Maker works both in the moment, and how it is remembered.”

Ixchel avoided Giselle’s gaze and focused all her efforts on finding her way out of her wrappings, without agitating her injuries.

“The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear. And the more our trials seem ordained. That is hard to accept, no. What we have been called to endure? What we perhaps must come to believe. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us? If this creature has an Archdemon at his beck and call, all the more reason Andraste would send someone to rise against him.”

“Andraste did not send me,” Ixchel said, almost a whisper. “The Maker does not guide me. It is my mortal heart, Mother. That is all. For better or worse.” She put out a hand, and Mother Giselle took it to help her up.

Ixchel struggled to take the next step on her own, and she staggered to the edge of the tent. Her friends had fallen silent—indeed, the whole camp seemed to be under a ominous pall.

From her vantage point, she could see Josephine and Leliana sitting by a fire, heads hung in mourning. Cullen stood in a dark space between tents and stared up at the sky, his arms crossed tight over his chest. Cassandra was hunched and shaking over a hastily constructed war table. Her other companions were scattered: she could see the shapes of Vivienne and Dorian weaving through the maze of tents, illuminating them, giving out enchanted stones to provide the occupants a modicum of warmth; Blackwall helped Charter take stock of rations; Varric sat near a fire with a small bundle in his arms—a baby, swaddled carefully in furs, and he stared down into its face mournfully as a woman, possibly the mother or an older sister, nodded off on his shoulder. She did not see Solas or the Chargers or Cole, but she guessed that wherever they were, they were helping, too.

Behind her, she heard Mother Giselle’s breath catch in her throat. Ixchel bowed her head to let the woman’s voice fall over her, run down her spine, brace her:

_“Shadows fall,_  
_and hope has fled._  
_Steel your heart;_  
_the dawn will come_

_The night is long,_  
_and the path is dark._  
_Look to the sky,_  
_for one day soon,_  
_the dawn will come.”_

Ixchel did not believe in the Maker, did not believe Andraste to be a prophetess, did not believe in a divine power who watched over any individual in Thedas—no matter how great or small. But as Leliana’s keen eyes raised from the fire and looked at her, filled with such determination and hope, Ixchel’s soul was briefly washed clean of Despair.

Leliana’s voice, then Threnn’s, then Harrit’s and the scouts and workers who were awake, and then those roused from sleep by the swelling of the song, they each filled her up. Ixchel’s breaths burned in her throat, and hot tears burned at her still-cold skin, and in her heart she burned, too. Here was the center of her faith. Here was her cathedral, amid the devastation and the grief, and here she was to be reborn.

_“The shepherd's lost,_  
_and his home is far._  
_Keep to the stars;_  
_the dawn will come._

_The night is long,_  
_and the path is dark._  
_Look to the sky,_  
_for one day soon,_  
_The dawn will come.”_

The force that would become the true Inquisition approached her, came close enough to touch. The people she had recruited, the people who had come to serve alongside her, the people she had helped, knelt at her feet as she wept and watched. And they saluted her as their champion.

Over their heads, she saw Cole help Chancellor Roderick stand to see the mass of gathered people, and she saw Roderick weep into his fist at the sight. Beyond them, Dorian and Vivienne had stilled, and they watched with varying expressions of awe and mystification on their faces.

_“Bare your blade,_  
_and raise it high._  
_Stand your ground:_  
_the dawn will come._

_The night is long,_  
_and the path is dark;_  
_look to the sky,_  
_for one day soon_  
_the dawn will come.”_

Even further, beyond the edge of the camp, she saw a glint: Solas, watching, inscrutable in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mir Da'len Somniar (Dalish's Lullaby) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zl3CmzQY1So
> 
> No cover exists for Suledin (the song Ixchel thinks of after meeting Mythal) as far as I know.
> 
> Dar'eth shiral, vhenan - safe journey, my heart
> 
> Mala suledin nadas - now you must endure


	21. There you are, da'len

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know how I'm churning these out so fast but hello, 60k words under a month <__< Hope you're all enjoying! Leave a note if you are! Thanks for reading
> 
> 10/24/20

Ixchel did not remain standing for long. She faltered and Mother Giselle had to help her back to her cot. The young woman bowed her head in her hands and wept quietly.

“An army needs more than an enemy,” Mother Giselle said gently. “It needs a cause.”

Ixchel had no way of communicating, and no one to tell, how much her insides hurt in that moment. Though the sight of her friends and her army’s faith had banished Despair from her, at least from the moment, she was left with the pain of knowing it had once had a residence within her. Her whole body was wracked with sobs as she mourned that space, that void. She did not want to be the kind of person who was so haunted. She did not _want_ to be the kind of person whose mind strayed down such lonely paths. She did not want to have wanted so badly to have been buried under all that snow. But the fact remained that she had, and there was space within her for such desires to return.

Mother Giselle’s warm hands undid her tangled braids and smoothed out her hair. It still crunched with dried ichor and smelled of the Blight, but the Chantry woman worked her fingers through it tenderly regardless.

Ixchel still wept when Solas approached, laden with something steaming and hot. She could not stem the flow of her tears or her shivers when he sat beside her on the cot. They only flowed harder when Mother Giselle’s hands left her hair and the woman left the tent to give them some privacy.

Ixchel was barely able to hold the small bowl in front of her, and she certainly wasn’t able to lift it to her lips. And she couldn’t look at Solas.

“You said you walked a path of grief,” he said in a murmur. “We were speaking in the context of putting faith in other people, holding them to the highest standard, and trying to live up to that standard as well, without becoming bitter. Yet the lonely path that led you to the Elder One’s feet… _Harellen ma’ghi’lenas._ What guided you there disguised itself as honor. Even to me.”

“Could it not be both?” she demanded, desperate and bitter through her tears. Her head bowed lower, and her hair dropped into the broth he had brought her. Her tears dripped from her nose into the bowl. “Could it not be right, and also be selfish?”

He made a soft, sad sound, and the sob that wrenched from her was even more pained. She was so tired, and she was so tired of conversations where she could not directly address the six-eyed wolf that she knew hung over his shoulder, even though her words were meant for him.

He did not reach for her, or put his hand on her back, or touch her hair. His hands remained clasped in his lap as he seemed to wait for her to speak. He seemed content just to sit beside her as she made a wretched scene of herself.

But at last, she managed to catch her breath enough. She wiped her face on her shoulder. “It’s selfish to want to not be responsible anymore,” she said hoarsely. “But that’s just because I’m alive now to be held responsible. If I had died—I had just sealed the Breach. Whatever the Elder One has planned from now on, or if not him then the Sixth Blight, or if not that then some Qunari invasion, or if not that—who knows—someone else would rise up to face it. Or the Inquisition would. And I believe in that. I don’t think I’m the only one capable. I didn’t feel guilty in the moment. But now, I am someone who’s capable, and I’m here, and I’m alive, and I feel guilty for wishing that weren’t the case. But going to die was the right thing to do. And continuing now is the right thing to do. Can’t both be true?”

Solas made the same sound again, and she snorted in disgust as a reply. “The world is never going to stop falling apart, Solas,” she said, staring down into the bowl in her hands without seeing it. “Some of us have a chance to make it better, for longer, in the meantime, and because we have the chance, we have the responsibility. It’s not just about not making things _worse_.”

“And it is a heavy responsibility on your shoulders,” he agreed. “Never mind the fact that you do not have much shoulder to carry it on, in the first place.”

Ixchel was so shocked by his jab that she didn’t even think to laugh. She was so taken aback that the uncontrollable shivering that wracked her body stopped. The hitches in her breaths eased instantly.

Everything about her grief was thrown off in shock.

He gave her a thin, wan smile. “You should drink that before it gets cold, _lethallan_. It will help you sleep, and your body needs rest after all it has endured.”

She nodded slowly and raised the bowl to her lips without suspicion, without thinking of the things he might want to tell her in the privacy of the Fade. Instead, she lingered on that word: _endure_.

_Mala suledin nadas!_

Mythal had appeared to her. She was certain of it. Why? What had she yet done to earn Flemeth or Mythal’s attention? How could Flemeth or Mythal know of her yet in any way that would matter? Know to find her?

Ixchel finished drinking the broth before she even realized it, and she had raised the empty bowl almost to her lips again when Solas intercepted it. He took it from her with gentle fingers, and at last, he brushed his hand against hers. “The song Dalish sang,” he said softly. “It was very beautiful: _‘Elgara vallas, da’len. Melava somniar.’”_

Ixchel could already feel the potent tranquilizer putting weight in her eyelids. With no food in her stomach and her exhaustion already overwhelming her, she was no match for the potent anesthetic that swept her mind blank.

The last thing she remembered was her head falling on to Solas’s shoulder, and his gentle chuckle as he reached up to push her hair behind one ear.

-:-:-:-:-

The next moment, it seemed, she was in the Fade. She had a split second of sheer panic as she _recognized_ that she had not expected to be in the Fade, hadn’t centered herself, wasn’t ready to shape it, and she was afraid of revealing something she shouldn’t yet know—or something she didn’t want an intruder to see.

But then she realized that she was just standing in a field of golden grass so high it brushed her elbows, and the air was warm and the sky was as burnished gold as the grass below her that it was like being on the ocean at sunset.

Markham. One of the few places she had ever called home.

Solas was in the grass behind her, his face turned to the wind. He breathed deeply of it; there was fog rolling down the coast in the distance, and the air was sweet with the mingling of ocean and mountain air.

In the distance, they could hear voices singing, and in the dream there was no real melody—there was only the concept of singing voices, and she couldn’t tell if it was _Suledin_ or if it was _The Dawn Will Come_ or an ancient song summoned by his presence in her dream.

“The humans have not raised one of our people so high in ages beyond counting,” he noted. “Giselle’s faith is hard-won, _lethallan_ , worthy of pride…save one detail.”

“That faith might turn to worship?”

The words spilled from her, but she was conscious enough to stop from mentioning Evanuris or would-be gods or men whose people would have them be gods.

“Do you think me the person who would use such power to harm others, Solas?” she asked softly. She dragged her fingers across the sprouted grass, remembering the sounds of seeds rasping against one another in the wind.

“When they give me a title instead of a name, when they try to clip my ears so that they can justify their faith in me… Do you think I would lose myself to that role? Do you think me the kind of god who needs to prove herself to be a god?”

She gave him a dark look.

She had once disbanded the Inquisition, after all.

He met her gaze fearlessly.

“It is within _anyone’s_ character to do so, given the power,” he said. “It requires vigilance and humility to refrain. That is what may be lacking in some…as you have told me.”

“If you simply wish to remind me, not accuse me, stop _scowling_.”

She waved a hand dismissively, then froze. Her arm was laced up to the bicep with the green power of the Anchor, and beneath it, she could see the black, atrophying skin of her consumed forearm.

Solas was on her in an instant, taking her hand, soothing her. But she did not hear him over the ringing in her ears. She could not afford to focus on him—she had to keep the dream centered in Markham, on anything except for Fen’Harel’s refuge, on anything except for eluvians, on anything except for golden Ancient Sentinel armor—

“This is Elvhen magic,” he said softly. “Ancient, and tied to the orb that the Elder One uses. They build up power over time, supposedly the power of the Elvhen gods. He must have unlocked it to open the Breach—and in doing so, caused the explosion that destroyed the Conclave.”

“How did he find it? Are there more? Do you think he found it recently or did he take it when Tevinter rose after the fall of Arlathan—” She stopped herself abruptly.

He smiled a little, and her heart skipped, knowing he liked it when she showed her ability to connect the dots and see the larger implications of the information he revealed to her. But he did not elaborate, and he dipped his head to look down at her arm. The glow had faded, but the blackened skin remained. “However the Elder One came to it, the orb is Elven, and with it, he threatens the heart of human faith,” he said in a marginally more gentle voice. “With it, he killed the leader of the Chantry. We must prepare for their reaction when they learn the orb is of our People.”

“Think they’d burn me like Andraste? Or wait until I’m dead and throw me out like Shartan?” She rolled her eyes. “It won’t even be about the orb, lethallen. It’ll be a famine, or it’ll be a Blight, or it’ll be a _hangover_. Eventually they’ll find something to blame on Elves.”

“I suspect you are correct. But you cannot afford to lose their faith—and their aide—before you succeed in thwarting the Elder One. By attacking the Inquisition, the Elder One has changed it. Changed _you_. He has selected the arrow, and strung the bow, that will be his end. But that weapon, the Inquisition and their faith in you, needs room to grow.”

She watched him thread their fingers together, and the fields of Markham became a sloping field of snow.

“Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build… Grow…”

He led her up to a ridge—a ridge she knew so well—a ridge that looked over the intimidating approach to Skyhold. She didn’t even need to walk, for the dream shifted around her as Solas moved. But she wished she could stop him, wished she had a moment longer to steel herself.

Because the sight of Skyhold made her heart burn. The Anchor in her arm flared again, but the pain was in her chest, but deeper than that. It was in her soul.

The painful sight of her beloved home only lasted a moment before the sky darkened, and a glow began to rise up from the citadel in front of her. Red lyrium shards and strange, glowing tendrils of Blighted fungus began to sprout from its walls. She gasped at the foreign sight, and she shrank behind Solas as the nightmarish glow reached even the sky.

He seemed alarmed, and he pulled her close to him as he looked up at the sky as well. A voice boomed across the sky like low, rolling thunder, and she recognized the Nightmare’s needling voice:

 _“Ahhh, there you are,_ da’len _… And such deep, dark fears you’ve saved for me…”_

“Solas,” she said urgently. “Wake—”

The snow around her feet became rushing water, and the solid ground dropped out from under her. Red lyrium glowed in the depths beneath her, and the torches of darkspawn hordes flickered above the surface of the water as she drowned in the Deep Roads.

Her lungs burned, and in the split second before her last breath escaped her, a hand grabbed her by the scuff of the neck and pulled her up out of the water, and it was an Emissary cackling in her face.

For a terrible moment that stretched into eternity, she stared into its horrible Blighted face and felt it eating her thoughts. As gatlok rang in her ears, it ran its putrid, diseased tongue across her cheek, and she screamed.

Memories vomited out of her, and they hurt as they left her as though they were shards of glass. The terrible despair of the cracked and broken library in the Fade, the intense dread of an endless fall into an abyss, the existential loss of a shattered orb and an empty space beside her, the eternal fear thereafter of another such loss—

The Emissary gagged and gargled, and two daggers sprouted between its ears.

Cole caught her in his arms before she could fall back into the depths of the Deep Roads. “You can’t let it hear you scream, or it will make you forget!” he said urgently.

She stuffed her fist in her mouth.

“Your body is keeping your mind asleep,” Cole said. “That doesn’t mean you need to be in the Nightmare!"

Ixchel buried her face in Cole’s chest and tried to focus on somewhere else, somewhere other than that terrible, cold water, that endless, untouched, death-filled space that was the deepest of the Deep Roads. All she could think of was another dark place, this one quiet and secure: her little library under Skyhold.

She and Cole were suddenly under the large oak desk, curled up around each other like children. Cole did not need to breathe, but the sound of it comforted her, so he breathed deeply beneath her ear as he held her.

“I can’t afford to forget,” she whispered to him. “I need to remember, so I can do them better.”

“Don’t give them to it, then.”

 _Right_. She was in the Fade, and if she was afraid enough of losing her memories to the Nightmare, she would _fear_ them right into its hands.

“Solas is looking for you, too. But I can’t let _him_ find us and _not_ the Nightmare.”

Ixchel winced and buried her face deeper in Cole’s bony chest. “That’s for the best.”

“He hurts, an old pain—”

“I know, Cole,” she whispered. “Please don’t. Not now. Please… I just want to sleep, and not be afraid, and not hurt.”

“I can do that,” he said in a mirrored whisper, and now that they were safe, now that they were quiet, she felt like she could close her eyes and let him shape the Fade for her instead.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke with a bitter taste in her mouth and a pounding headache, and arm ache, and rib ache, and—well, her whole body _hurt_. Cassandra sat close by her bedside, head bowed so low over her lap that Ixchel was certain she was sleeping.

But when Ixchel stirred to find her way out of the mountain of furs that wrapped her, Cassandra was alert in an instant.

“You should not move,” the Seeker said. “Mother Giselle said you—”

“I’m fine, Cass,” Ixchel rasped. “I just want to sit up.”

Maternal worrying was not Cassandra’s strong suite, so she relented and helped Ixchel sit up as she’d requested. “Would you like anything to eat? Blackwall and Dalish went hunting this morning and found some elk.”

Ixchel shook her head. Though her stomach still twisted with hunger, it roiled with anxiety and unease as well. She hoped it would settle eventually, but for now, she had questions. “What have you and the others been arguing about?”

“Ah.” The corner of Cassandra’s mouth twitched upward in a dark smile. “So you heard us.”

“Impossible not to.”

“We do not know where we are, or where we can lead the people of Haven. To go back down the mountain the way we came…hoping that what remains of the Elder One’s army has truly abandoned our trail… I believe that would be foolish. But Leliana and Josephine doubt our ability to survive a trek across the Frostbacks to reach the Hinterlands, and to go south to the Basin would likewise be a grueling journey—with the added risk of confrontations with unfriendly Avvar.” Cassandra sighed. “But we cannot stay here. Sooner or later we will run out of supplies, and food, and warmth. Our shelters will not survive a strong blizzard or an avalanche. Standing still makes us an easy target, too.”

“Your concerns are reasonable,” Ixchel agreed. “Does Roderick recall where the summer pilgrimage path leads?”

“In the _summer_ ,” Cassandra said pointedly, “it leads to the Hinterlands, and it requires a well-stocked and guarded caravan and several months of preparation.”

Ixchel looked out of the open mouth of the tent and drank in the sight of the camp regrouping all around her. Friends conferred with one another and comforted each other. Food was passed around. People huddled together for warmth and solace.

“There may be a surface thaig, or an old outpost, or _something_ out here,” she mused aloud. “Perhaps Solas can try dreaming of those who walked these mountains long ago.”

“We do not have the luxury of time to spend sleeping around, on the off chance that you are correct.”

“I agree,” said Solas, who had just appeared at the mouth of the tent. “We must not rely _solely_ on my ability to walk these lands as the Fade remembers them. The Inquisition must choose a direction and travel steadfastly on that route, while scouts venter out in other directions and report back each night on what they have seen.”

“That will require a great deal more endurance than most of our people possess right now,” Cassandra protested.

“No, he’s right.” Ixchel clutched a fur closer around her shoulders and did not look at Solas. “I will scout ahead with one of these groups. It’s the only way we have to manufacture hope, Cassandra, and that’s what we need right now. Hope.” She offered Cassandra a small smile. “Seems like it’s all rested in me at the moment, anyway. Might as well do something with it.”

The older woman said, “Hmph,” but considered Ixchel thoughtfully for several moments. In the meantime, Solas ducked into the tent and handed Ixchel a bag that he had been carrying.

“It is all the soldiers were able to scavenge before they left Haven,” he said.

Her fine armor was packed in the bag, as well as her small collection of trinkets that she had been given over her journeys from people she had helped: small figurines, pieces of jewelry made of painted wooden beads and twine, rocks that had been painted by children.

She held it all close to her chest and sighed.

“We should speak to the others,” Cassandra said, “but I think I agree with your plan. It is all we have.” She stood. “I will gather them. You should not waste your strength now. You will be needing it.”

Solas sat in the chair Cassandra had just vacated and watched the Seeker go. “Does the Anchor bother you in the waking world?” he asked.

Ixchel stuck her hand out from under her mountain of furs and showed him the glimmering tear in her palm. “Enough to be aware of it,” she said, “but not a _pain_ , no. It was becoming unstable in Haven, around all those Red Templars. And when I thought… When I thought the Elder One was going to kill me, I detonated it. Willingly.”

He looked up at her sharply, then reached for her hand. “But it seems stable now.”

“When I woke up—well, I’ll have to tell the others this all over again in a second, but—I woke up and there were many demons around me, and I tore open a rift that sucked them all in again.” She offered him a shrug. “I could probably do it again now. I won’t, though. I’m aware I’m trying to _stop_ rifts in the Veil.”

“More than that, I do not think it wise to _count_ on the Anchor remaining stable after such uses of its power. I do not know how it has stabilized again, if what you say is true.”

She tilted her head to consider him and his point, and the only thing she could offer—not that she would voice it—was Mythal’s appearance to her in the snow.

“Solas,” she said, starting in a different vein, “what happened in the dream… Cole said it was a Nightmare. It’s been trying to reach me for a long time. The Elder One sent it. So a Nightmare and Envy, set upon me by the Elder One. Why would they serve him?”

Solas frowned thoughtfully. “If he is indeed connected to red lyrium, or to the Blight—if that was indeed an Archdemon—then his actions will sow great fear across Thedas,” he said. “An enterprising spirit might see that as a way of gaining sustenance. But it is troubling that it would seek you out in this way. I could not find its domain, or you, after you disappeared, _lethallan_. I was afraid that I had trapped you in the Fade to suffer it, unable to wake up...”

“Cole helped me break out and hide,” she said.

Solas’s brow eased. “That is comforting to know."

She looked down at their joined hands and sighed. “As in all things, I have stupid luck,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harellan ma’ghi’lenas - The liar leads you (I imagine this is a euphemism for when depression clouds your thinking)  
> Mala suledin nadas - now you must endure  
> Elgara vallas, da’len. Melava somniar - Sun sets, little one. Time to dream.


	22. First Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/26/20

Cassandra returned with the rest of Ixchel’s council. “Lady Pentaghast has already explained to us your suggestion,” Josephine said. “It is the first thing we have agreed once since… Well, yes. Anyway. As soon as you are up to it, we agree that you should venture out, and we can arrange experienced scouts to go in other directions while the main host of the Inquisition continues on a steady route.”

“Let’s go generally northward,” she said. “West, we run the risk of running into the Orlesian Civil War. We can’t go east and bring the mages deeper into Ferelden or risk making King Alistair’s life harder.”

No one seemed to have a problem with the plan, at least not that they voiced. It seemed more that the certainty with which she spoke was unnerving. She could see from the uneasy ways they glanced at each other that they really weren’t sure how she was up to speaking, let alone planning the movement of a small army.

But she was. Unlike the rest of them—unlike even Solas, probably, after so long in uthenera—Ixchel knew where she was going. Well, if she could get her bearings, she would be able to lead them to Skyhold without any assistance. How many times had she made that journey through the Frostbacks? It was a coming home to her, and she looked forward to it more than she would have ever admitted to herself. But at the moment, having just woken up from wandering in the middle of a blizzard after being left for dead under an avalanche after facing a Blighted Tevinter Magister… She would need a little longer to get her feet under her.

She sighed. She _hated_ being incapacitated by her own body.

Cullen asked what she imagined was on everyone’s minds: “Ixchel… You were certain you were going to face your death. Are you certain you’re ready to…?”

“Yes,” she said flatly.

“But what _happened_ out there?”

Ixchel pulled her hands back underneath her covers and pressed her cold fingers to her chest. Her heart was thundering, despite her lack of exertion. She curled herself around her hands, under her furs, and did not meet their eyes. She spoke as matter-of-factly as she could, to keep her account as bare and constant as possible—unquestionable.

“The Archdemon came down and I thought it was going to kill me before I could bury Haven, but then _he_ came. The Elder One. He said he’s been to the Fade before, and he wanted to return the Tevinter Imperium to its glory days…” She chewed her chapped lower lip for a moment, then grimaced when it began to bleed. “He’s an ancient Magister, and he wields the Blight like a weapon. He had this…orb…and it’s connected to the mark in my hand. He can’t use the orb without the mark, but it’s been in my hand too long.” She smiled grimly at her lap. “I made it explode in his face, and that triggered the trebuchet. Next thing I know I’m in caves, with a bunch of demons, and I ran out and was in the blizzard… and then I just wandered. I thought I was going to die the entire time.”

Josephine covered her mouth, horrified, while Leliana tilted her head as though finding it interesting that there were tunnels she perhaps had not known about. Cullen and Cassandra both seemed to be having a religious reckoning. Ixchel ignored the pointed stare Solas directed at her, and when it seemed like she was not going to address him, he stood and left without even a murmured excuse.

She sighed a little, then tried to make eye contact with every one of her remaining advisers. “Which is why,” she said, “I’m happy to make plans for the future, and lead our people through these mountains. Because I’m not dead. Not yet.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel had agreed with her advisers and friends that she was not up for walking long distances. But she had not agreed to let the Iron Bull carry her like a babe in arms. Unfortunately, in her state, she didn’t have much strength to fight him off.

“If I didn’t just have an entire mountain fall down on me, I would _kill_ you, Bull!” she snarled.

“Sure thing, small fry,” he replied with good humor. “You took down that _ataashi_ like it was nothing. But so did _I.”_

She punched him several times in the chest, but he just continued to laugh.

“You know, the Elder One,” she said after she got tired of punching him. “That was like, the original Magister. The Tevinterest ‘Vint. The original mold from which all subsequent Vints were cast.”

“Really? Sparkler over there’s _that_ ugly to you?”

She cackled manically at him, and at Dorian, though the Tevinter mage was too far away to hear.

Ixchel protested a little less loudly when _Krem_ carried her on his back for a while. She enjoyed being surrounded by the Chargers, enjoyed being teased by them, praised by them. And she’d never really admit it, but she enjoyed having her cheek pressed up against Krem’s. He had the most beautiful eyelashes, and somehow, despite being as unwashed as all the rest of the Inquisition was on this pilgrimage, he smelled…

She kept her face buried in his shoulder as long as she could, pretending to be embarrassed by the crew’s attentions. But no matter how she enjoyed it, she was absolutely relieved when at the end of the day’s trek, she was allowed to walk on her own two wobbly feet to her own tent like a grown woman.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel did not find herself speaking much to anyone those first few days, besides Bull when he carried her. She retreated to her tent each evening with the Anchor pressed over her heart, unable to determine whether her aches stemmed from the mark or from something deeper. Cole had taken to sitting with her as she fell asleep, to guard her dreams even if she wasn’t aware of his presence in them. But besides his company, she was left mostly to herself after sundown; there were many tasks for her advisers to perform as the Inquisition leadership, and her companions all seemed to be helping out with the wounded and the ill. She was grateful for that. She was also grateful to not be bothered.

Because Ixchel was aware that half of her companions were in religious awe of her willingness to lay down her life, and her miraculous reappearance, while the other half tried to grasp which of two dark realities were true: either she cared little for her life, or she did not want to live. She was thankful, at least, that Bull’s method of coping with that revelation was probably to offer to let her beat him up once she got back her strength. Qunari weren’t about _talking_ , they were about _hitting things_ until you found bigger problems. And she was glad that Solas didn’t seem to have more to say to her, for she had little else to say to him on the exhausting topic.

Dorian had largely kept to himself, bickering good-naturedly with Vivienne and casting pensive looks in Ixchel’s direction when he was at good enough distance. He was the one whose thoughts she had the least guess at, and the one she had the least desire to speak to, and more than once she found herself trying to crush the dead talking crystal in her hand. She had been _so close_ to throwing it in the snow, letting it be lost under the thousands of feet who would come to Skyhold along this path in the future. But she never could remove it from her neck. She supposed, as she lay in a tent with Cole and held it tight in her hand, that she needed the reminder.

And she deserved the pain it brought her, because she knew she had already put cracks in Varric’s precariously healed heart. He had given her a look that reminded her so much of the look he had given her when she told him Hawke had stayed behind in the Fade, and Ixchel knew that whenever he did decide to speak to her, she was going to probably die on the spot. She deserved that, at least.

Or, well, Varric deserved better.

-:-:-:-:-

The first day that she led the way forward, Solas accompanied her closely. She was embarrassed by how exhausted she was, how heavy her limbs felt, as she retrod paths that one day soon would be well-traveled. It would have been so much easier on her hart, but it had seemingly decided that its job was to pull sleds full of the injured. When Cullen had tried to unharness it so that Ixchel could ride, it had bit the Commander and that was that.

Solas had given her his staff to use as a walking stick, but she was still winded, and she was terribly annoyed at him. Firstly, he walked maddeningly just a step behind her so that she could appear, to anyone watching, that she were the one leading him. She understood the need for appearances, and image, but she didn't believe that this particular instance was an impactful one—and her neck ached from trying to look back at him all the time when they spoke.

For, secondly, he was prying into her past as they walked, and she needed to see his face so that she could tell when he was becoming suspicious. At some point her lies of omission were going to be outright lies. She needed to be able to gauge how her words landed, as she spoke them, to keep up a solid series of alibis and falsifications.

He had started out by asking her where the golden, coastal field had been in the dream they shared, before the Nightmare broke through. She had told him of Markham, where the weather had been fair enough for her to sleep out in the open and there had been enough farms with consistent bounty that her small thefts went unnoticed. But she had always felt drawn away, because there were so few pieces of her People there. She ran into Clan Lavellan often enough in the area, during their own migratory patterns—but she had always felt the outsider. Yet when a long winter ruined a harvest and Ixchel was certain she was going to starve, Clan Lavellan came looking for her. They knew she was no hunter, so they took her in for that winter but had been allowed to stay even after the thaw.

"I have not crossed paths with Clan Lavellan. Did they teach you your particular dialect?"

She snorted. She knew that he was trying to tease out how she knew so much ancient Elvhen, as rough as it was, but she also knew he was trying to politely assess how sophisticated Clan Lavellan _actually_ was, to take stock of their worth as inheritors of Elvhenan.

"You mean, _'Do they fumble with the elegant language of our ancestors as shamefully as you do,_ da'len?'" A glance at him informed her that he at least has the decency to blush. "No, I'm just particularly clumsy. What ancient Elvhen I know, I learned elsewhere on my travels. I know I mix them up, I know I must be unintelligible sometimes, but—

Solas cut her off gently. _"Ar dirthan'as ir elgara, ma'sula e'var vhenan.”_

"That was beautiful," she said, "but too fast, Solas."

She heard the quiet sound of his smile spread across his face, and she stopped herself from looking at him. It would hurt to have him look sympathetically, or pityingly, upon her. It would hurt more for him to look at her with affection.

“It is a poetic way of saying… When one speaks Elvhen, one speaks their spirit. Put another way, their intent. I would hope that your heart would recognize the rhythm of the song, even if you did not understand the words.”

Ixchel couldn’t help the soft smile he brought out of her. “Yeah. It does.”

“It is a sentiment that goes both ways.”

She paused to breathe deeply of the cold mountain air. She felt chagrined that the cold was getting to her so easily when Solas walked with his bare feet in the snow. She was fairly certain there was magic involved, but it still only served to reinforce his Elvhen mystique. She was jealous in more ways than one.

"I do not think you are shameful, _lethallan,"_ he said, and she did not need to look at him to know the earnest and sad look in his eye whenever he said something that really meant: _ar lath ma._ She wondered when exactly he had come to such a realization. When she told him why she had taken the vallaslin of Dirthamen in an attempt to convince him that she cared deeply about the history of her People? Or Therinfal, when he realized how seriously and solemnly she placed her faith in the inherent worth of _people_ in general?

Why—again, she wondered, bitterly twisting the knife in her own chest—had he realized such a thing and allowed himself to coax her, kiss her? Why had he ever?

She had tread this circular path many times before in her darker moments. The nicest answer she could think of was that he had the same problem she and Dorian did, according to Cole: _You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are._

The other answer was that he had planned on wrapping her into his endeavors, until he decided that…she was too weak? Would oppose him? Would hold him back? Somehow or another, she was not _worth_ the inclusion.

She wasn’t sure what she could do to overcome that.

"Well, I think it’s shameful. From my language to my ears to the dragonling scars, I do my People a disservice."

"Elvhenan was an empire of superficialities and excess, that is true, but it was also one of great principle," Solas told her. "Court intrigue was not _all_ founded on duplicity and seasonal fashion."

"I'm not certain of what you mean. Certainly you’re not saying that it is my _heart_ that makes me Elvhen, Solas?" She laughed. "What is my heart if not shem and Dalish? The two peoples you have the _least_ respect for on Thedas. I think you've said nicer things about Qunari."

He was quiet for a moment. She continued walking. Solas’s staff sank deep into the snow, and she realized she was hauling herself up a steeper incline than she’d first anticipated. By the time she reached the top, she was out of breath again. Solas put a hand out to steady her.

“You understand as well as I, how frustrating—no, how exhausting—it is to watch people care little about improving their lives, or each others’ lives,” he said.

She did not look up at him.

“Before joining the Inquisition, I had joined my share of causes. But when I offered lessons learned in the Fade, I was derided by my enemies, and sometimes my allies: _liar, fool, madman_. There are endless ways to say someone isn’t worth listening to. Over time, it grinds away at you. I suppose I am just tired of fighting for those who do not want to be fought for.”

“You offer lessons learned in the Fade, I offer truths they hide away in their hearts. I agree. But if you stop fighting, why were you fighting in the first place?” she pressed.

“You do not win a war by fighting to the death in every battle. Pick the fights you can win, remember your goals, and do nothing that does not further them.” He paused for a split second, then added, “Ah, but now we know how little you value your life in the first place. Perhaps that explains something.”

Ixchel whipped around so fast that she nearly threw herself down the incline again. She was just fast enough to catch the broken look on his face before it was replaced by the schooled _hahren_ mask he liked to hide behind. Her face twisted in anger she could not conceal. “What if the _goal_ _itself_ is the fight you cannot win?” she posed to him. “What are _your_ goals, Solas? Are they so much better than mine? Recruit me, then, _rajelan_. Give me a fight that won’t exhaust me with its hopelessness.”

He held her stare for a tense moment. “Yours is a worthy path. I have said that before.” Then, as though he knew he could not deceive her but he did not want to see the impact of his deception, his eyes slid away, first to the fraying collar of her quilted jacket, then off to the side to look down at the journey that had yet to take toward Skyhold. She followed his gaze to the horizon and chewed her lip in frustration. He did not trust her, and her antagonism—born of a love that had already been tortured and warped into something dark and sick—was not helping.

If she wanted things to be different, if she wanted to stop him from abandoning her to pursue his _din’an’shiral,_ if _anything_ was going to be different this time, then she needed him to trust her.

The easier option would be to throw herself off this cliff now and hopefully rob him of the Anchor’s power. But that was not certain to thwart his plans in their entirety—and more than that, she chided herself, it was not her _only_ option.

She needed to remember that, no matter how much it hurt to be kind to him. No matter how easily she knew she could hurt him. No matter how much she wanted to.

She glared bitterly at the wolf jawbone on his chest.

He exhaled slowly, and the jawbone shifted.

_“Ma ghilan, lethallan.”_

Despite the regret, and the warmth, she heard in his voice, _Ixchel_ did not trust _him_. She wasn’t certain if that, in particular, was going to be necessary. Yet she had the sinking suspicion that it would.

Ixchel ran a hand across her face and swallowed a frustrated scream. _“Ar souveran,”_ she said. _“Ar ame ir abelas.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahren - trusted elder  
> Rajelan - general  
> Ma Ghilan - lead me  
> Ar souveran - I’m tired  
> Ar ame ir abelas - I’m very sorry
> 
> 10/26/20


	23. Less than Exalted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi - My part of California is on fire yet again. So I swear it's the ash in my eye that's making me weep and absolutely NOT the fact that I reread _Callback_ from _Tevinter Nights_ and poor Ixchel q_q
> 
> 12/27/20

She was steadily regaining her strength, and Ixchel finally managed to insert herself into the camp chore roster. She was relieved to help out, to feel useful, to feel less _exalted_. She helped Harrit re-shod horses and fix up sleds and carts. She helped prepare the food that the hunters brought back. She helped hammer out dents in the Templars’ armor and carve out new staves for mages. She did everything she could to help, when she wasn’t out scouting.

And though she wanted to avoid the others, her path crossed with theirs by necessity, as everyone tried to make themselves useful. Fortunately, they seemed reluctant to speak to her for their own reasons, and their duties were more pressing.

That is, until she found herself seated beside Dorian as they worked on fashioning staves for mages who had lost theirs in the battle at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They were a two-person assembly group, with Ixchel tinkering with metal and stone and Dorian working with leather and wood. She was quiet while she worked, focused on the jeweler’s tools in her hands.

Dorian surprised her by allowing the silence to stretch. But finally, he did break it: “You know, it occurs to me I know very little about you, Ixchel.”

“Homeless, bastard, drifter,” she listed off without looking at him.

“Atheist, Chevalier-trained dragon-slayer, Elvhen scholar, champion of the downtrodden, and either the luckiest or unluckiest woman I’ve ever met. Indeed, you might think that would give me quite a good picture, but I find myself wanting to know more.” He sighed a little wistfully. “For example—”

“Dorian—”

“—after all that has happened, can you _still_ believe that you are not chosen by someone? You looked me in the eye certain that you were going to die, as though you were determined to make it happen. Yet, here you are, thwarted.”

She gritted her teeth. “If I find out who’s responsible, I’ll kill them,” she assured him, but the irony threatened to kill her first.

“You’re looking at me as though I would be a suitable scapegoat.” He raised a single, serious eyebrow at her.

Ixchel tossed her tools down in her lap testily and gestured at him. “What’s this about, Pavus? Are you concerned I’m not fit to lead?”

“Not in the slightest. I may not believe in the Chantry, but I believe in _you_. I happen to agree with Cassandra that the Maker sent you, whether through Andraste or fate. You are what we needed most at the moment we needed it.” He held her gaze stubbornly. _“But_ that doesn’t preclude me from worrying that the very same qualities that make you so perfect for leadership might _also_ make you prone to burnout.”

“What, caring about people?”

“Yes,” he said.

All at once, she couldn’t look at him, but she couldn’t tear herself away. In her mind’s eye, they were in the snow in the Emprise. She had lost so many good soldiers at Adamant, had made so many calls that turned out to be so _wrong_ , and in the aftermath she had run. She had thrown herself into hunting down Red Templars and Venatori until her body threatened to shut down on her entirely.

And then he had huddled with her under his arm beside a fire while Solas and Blackwall set up wards and traps around their camp, and he had made nearly the same observation.

She blinked away the burning in her eyes as she stared at him and tried to remember that that hadn’t happened yet, and hopefully would not. Not while she was still alive, anyway.

But she had wanted to not be. That was the entire problem.

“I don’t know how else to be,” she said. “I care about people, and I’m capable, and I’m in positions to act. At some point or another, I won’t be around, but people will still need help. There’s nothing I can do to change that.” So what does it matter if I get taken out of the game early?”

He clicked his tongue gently. “The world is bigger than I, even bigger than you. It laughs at all the things we think we know.”

“Doesn’t that make you feel so small and insignificant?” she asked. “Ineffectual? Why bother?”

“Oh, of course it does. _Even_ me.” He shrugged prettily. “The work is still worth _doing_ , but it is how I convince myself to take a break, sometimes, from all that _heroing.”_

“What, the freeing of the slaves and the…actually, I’m not sure what other heroic things you can do in Tevinter. Convince people to drink less wine?” She rolled her eyes. “You do free slaves, don’t you, Dorian?”

Dorian pursed his lips. “I know better than to broach that topic with…”

“With a Dalish Elvhen scholar?” She chuckled darkly. “Yes, perhaps we shouldn’t dredge up the past.”

“Believe it or not, Ixchel, I am happy to critique my homeland and traditions. I am as angry as anyone that an ancient Magister Darkspawn would like to take over the world in the name of the Imperium, and even more so at my idiot countrymen who would work with him. But I have been at war with my country’s expectations and practices since I was young enough to speak.” He put a hand on her arm before she could pull away. “All I wanted to say is that I understand. It is exhausting and demoralizing work. But perhaps facing down an Archdemon on one’s own isn’t the _only_ answer to such things.”

Ixchel forced herself to relent. “Thanks, Dorian.”

“And it is not such a good life, living a lie… Keeping your true feelings locked inside… It festers inside of you, like poison.”

She glanced up at him obliquely and offered him a sad smile. “Point taken, Dorian,” she told him. “Thank you.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel joined Cullen by the fire late into the night, just a few days away from Skyhold. Few were awake at that hour: a few soldiers on guard, including Ser Barris and Lysette, but even Cassandra and Leliana had retired. As Ixchel came to sit beside Cullen on a rickety bench, she noticed that the deep purple bags under his eyes had deepened even further since the day of Haven’s fall.

She nudged his knee with her own, but she did not speak. She only gave him a small smile before she turned to stare into the fire.

“Solas has told me that the… _spirit_ has been helping you with your dreams.”

She nodded. _“Cole_ has been guarding me from a Nightmare demon, yes. But he can influence dreams that hurt, regardless of their origin.” Ixchel spread her hands. “I have had experience with spirits such as Cole. It is an ancient Elvhen way, to parlay with spirits as they are, unbound and unbidden. To keep them true to their inherent purpose prevents them from becoming demons. But I…shall spare you the history lecture. Anyway, I have told him not to influence the Templars without permission, except if they are about to hurt someone. Which, again, I trust them not to.”

“Wh-what? You asked him not to…?”

Ixchel nodded again.

Cullen sputtered for a moment, then bowed his head. “That was forward-thinking of you. And kind.”

“It would take a blind fool to miss how much trouble would come of violating those boundaries.” She put a hand atop his clasped gauntlets. The metal was warm, and she could feel his breath on the back of her knuckles as he hunched over under his mantle. “Ignoring them doesn’t change the fact those boundaries, those feelings, exist.”

Cullen was quiet and contemplative. She felt something in the silence between them that felt almost reverent, and she was loathe to break it. Then, he covered her hand with one of his own, almost timidly, as though she had been talking about boundaries of another sort. Ixchel’s heart warmed at his hesitance. Steadfast and earnest, not a single duplicitous bone in his body—she loved him, in her own way.

“It’s funny we’re the ones in charge of the army,” she noted. “The softest of them all. Even Josie’s tougher than me, I’m sure.”

Cullen chuckled. “History is full of commanders who never flinched at loss of life. Perhaps it is time for a change.”

Ixchel gave his hand a squeeze. “But how are you doing, Cullen?”

He breathed in deeply, collecting himself, and she could sense how difficult it was for him to be honest with her—but he would try, anyway. “You stayed behind. You could have… I argued with myself the entire way up the mountain. Was it your sense of honor that made you stay, or…?”

Her jaw tightened on reflex, but she knew at this point that her friends deserved to speak their minds about her willingness to sacrifice herself for the cause. Each in their own way, but each just as sore. “Of course it’s both, Cullen.”

“You’re right. We set up as best we could at Haven, but we could never prepare for an Archdemon…or whatever it was. It was a desperate situation.” He sighed. “It still is.”

“When is it ever _not?”_ She offered him a wry smile, and when he returned it, watery and wan, she felt herself soften more. The weight in Ixchel’s shoulders melted a little, and she shifted closer to him so their sides were pressed together. His breath caught in his throat, but she did not push further, to be closer to him. But she felt supported by the mass of him beside her, warmed by more than his warmth, and something deep within her had been touched by his words, his presence—and it was drawn ever to him. “You know better than most that the world will always find a way to fall apart, with us somehow in the middle of it.”

“And so it is that we tell ourselves, _‘Today isn’t the day.’”_

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Until it is.”

There was another long pause, in which she imagined they both paid perhaps too much attention to how each other was breathing, or how the other’s warmth seeped in to them through layers of armor and furs. Then, Cullen turned a little more to face her. “There is something that the others and I have been discussing. Leliana expressly forbade me from telling you, but—”

“I would hate for you to break another vow, Cullen,” she teased gently. “No, no—I’m serious. I think I know.”

His brow creased, but after a momentary search of her eyes, he chuckled. “You have always been a quick read of us. I can’t tell whether there’s a great Ferelden tactician in you, or a master player of Leliana’s Grand Game.”

Ixchel couldn’t help the unladylike snort that escaped her. “Or, I’m not blind. Has Mother Giselle had some inspiring things to say about me, too?”

Cullen’s tired face split in a brilliant smile. “You’re a sharp one.”

She touched her head briefly to his shoulder, but then she pulled away. Her hand slipped from his grasp, and she stood. “I want you to be well, Cullen. Let me know if I can help. Or if you’d like me to ask Cole to help you.”

“Of course, my lady,” he murmured, smiling softly.

“Good night, Commander.” She returned his smile and left him to tend to the coals.

-:-:-:-:-

Charter accompanied Ixchel and Solas on the day Skyhold was to come into view. Ixchel knew they were close; she could have made this part of the journey blindfolded and hogtied. As such, she had been preparing for this sight all morning. She had been counting down the steps to it since they reached the base of this slope. But still, she had not been prepared for how the sight would hit her.

Ixchel had not seen the citadel outside of the Fade since she had been flung back into the world at the Breach. Everything since then had, to some extent, felt strictly as an obligation: a series of steps to take as part of her duty as an experienced Herald. Haven was a stopover on that journey, for she had had years to accept that it had been buried and lost, and that it would be again. Every time she closed her eyes to rest, it was to get enough strength back to perform her duty as Herald again in the morning, and again, and again.

She had not realized how much she looked forward to Skyhold as a homecoming, until she stood at the top of the ridge and looked across the ravine at its mighty facade. The turquoise blue river, frozen solid far below in the valley, gleamed in the afternoon light, and Skyhold’s towers cast long, sharp shadows across the valley as the sun trespassed behind it on its rise. It beckoned to her with its dark holdings, bid her return, and fill it, and make it home once more.

“Messere Solas!” Charter gasped. “What is this place?”

Ixchel tore her gaze away from her ruined home to find Solas’s eyes on her and her alone. He was assessing her reaction more coolly than she expected, but his face softened when he saw the tears welling up in her eyes.

“Skyhold,” he said warmly. “Originally a place of great importance in Elvhenan known as _Tarasyl’an Te’las,_ it has been remade in the image of Ferelden kings and occupied by a diverse series of forces—even dwarves have taken residence here. But now, it awaits a new force: the Inquisition.”

Ixchel pressed her knuckles to her mouth to keep herself from making a sound as she looked back at Skyhold.

_You have never had a home before. You do not deserve to be alone._

_So, I gave you Skyhold._

She covered her face with her hands. She thought of how she would walk up to it on the main mountain path and approach its gates, and no one would be there to greet her. There would be no congratulatory calls from guards on the ramparts. There would be no bells. There would be only wind, just as there had been in her final days after Skyhold had been defanged and laid abandoned.

And since then, few had come to stay long in the fortress. Ferelden and Orlesian lords had insisted no force larger than thirty men occupy it at a time, and fewer than even those were willing to leave their lives behind just to maintain hers. So her found family had dwindled—first in the aftermath of the Exalted Council, and then in the following months, until she was nearly the last resident, for years after.

It was worse, after the Regret demon. She had commissioned a small crew of former Inquisition soldiers to retake the keep from it while she was on such an away journey, and in the aftermath, for one bloody, brilliant moment her home was full of love and laughter again—and then, once again, gone. Worse the second time.

She could never explain to Cassandra why she always returned there after her journeys out, pursuing leads on Fen’Harel’s movements. She had standing offers of welcome from the Empress and from King Alistair, from Tevinter, Nevarra, and a host of city states in the Free Marches, and just about every Dalish clan in between. But she had always returned to Skyhold, and every time she walked up to its dead walls, she hoped the sight would kill her in its own right. But it never had, and she’d taken matters into her own hands.

She had thought that by doing it there, she might stay forever. Instead, she had been sent on a long, long journey back.

And it was that moment—her homecoming—that she swore she would not take herself from it willingly again.


	24. Auspices and Offers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have asked about the Elvish in this work: I draw verbatim from in-game Elvish as it's presented on the dragonage fandom wiki, or from things that have been pre-translated by FenxShiral in Project Elvhen on this site (AO3). Anything you truly can't understand past that, I clumsily make up using FenxShiral's resources or Reddit. If any of them don't make sense or you're having trouble, just leave a comment and I'll give you the gist of what I was going for.
> 
> 10/28/20

Ixchel managed to stem her tears, and the day passed on. She held it together when they camped that night, knowing she would be home again by mid-morning. And by the time they actually reached Skyhold, she stood bravely in front of the portcullis to welcome every single last person in her caravan of refugees and followers home.

There were hundreds of them, and though one day she knew she would command thousands, their slow and weary pace meant that it took all afternoon for them to enter. At last, however, the former Templars who had taken up the rear entered and went to find Cullen and report—and it was time for Ixchel to enter Skyhold for the first time, again.

Her forces hardly filled the lower courtyard. When dispersed, it seemed still like a ghost town. She stood in the lower courtyard for some time, blocked from the stables by the collapsed bridge, not particularly wanting to visit the as-yet unnamed Herald’s Rest and knowing that there was too much rubble in the way of what would become her quarters. She didn’t know what to do with herself but wander, and she wasn’t inclined to wander when she knew where everything was already.

Solas approached her, and she turned to him, wondering what this place had looked like when it was his. Had it been similar to the Temple of Mythal? Or had it been more like the ruins she had wandered as she chased the Viddasala through eluvians after eluvians after eluvians? She remembered that lone wolf, staring with Veilfire eyes at the sight of a sundered Titan, and she wondered.

 _“Lethallan,”_ he said gently. “Would you become a statue in the courtyard?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “It doesn’t seem real, to be here,” she said in earnest. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

He gestured behind him. “You might explore.”

Ixchel raised her eyebrows. “And what about the ghosts?”

Solas stared at her, and she held his gaze for a beat, then laughed. “I’m kidding. But…There is something about this place. I feel like a trespasser…”

He gave her a laughing smile. “Here I thought you had sensed how thin the Veil is here. Ancient magic permeates the foundations, and the memory of powerful rituals draws spirits close.”

She shrugged. “Maybe that’s what I’m picking up.”

Solas turned and she followed obediently. She guessed that he liked her sense of discovery and awe, and he wanted to see it as she explored Skyhold. Indeed, upon their first arrival at Skyhold, he had followed _her_ as she wandered, and he had seemed so warmed at her delight and awe. In retrospect, it was even sweeter, and even more sad.

But now, she did not dare to lead him. She did not want to pretend. She was too tired.

"I know little of Ferelden ruins,” she said as he led her around the upper courtyard.

“They knew not what they built upon,” Solas replied, “but they knew that it was the host of a great power. The magic in this place has seeped into the stones that they laid, protecting it from darkness.”

“Yeah, but what ruler thought to destroy an ancient Elvhen site? For what purpose? And for what reason did they leave it abandoned?”

“Those who let it fall to ruin did not know what they possessed. Perhaps that was true even for the elves, as well.”

She cocked her head at his back and once again tried to understand if her conversation was with the Elvhen god or the hedge mage.

“I’ll make sure we do it justice, then,” she said.

“In your hands, I do not doubt it.”

They opened doors and poked their heads in to survey the damage and decay, murmured with soldiers and workers they encountered, and moved on. She leapt across ruined battlements behind his nimble feet, let the wind blow through her hair, and looked down upon the river valley and felt, perhaps, as Solas must all the time. To retread one’s steps in a world that wasn’t how she knew it was meant to be…

One day, caravans of her people would move slowly and silently along that path, ants among the snow. For now, the sun hung high and bright, and thanks to the magic of Skyhold’s walls, the bitter wind of the Frostbacks had died down to a gentle, though still chilling, breeze. The valley below Skyhold was still. She breathed in the stillness until it filled her, until it gave her the resolve she needed to speak.

 _“Tarasyl’an Te’las,”_ she murmured. “‘The place where the sky was held back.’ An auspice, again.”

Solas hummed unhelpfully. She continued to press.

“To have sealed the Breach and then come here, fighting one who would tear down the Fade and become a god…” She leaned against the ramparts and glanced him over from head to toe. “I’ve been trying to convince the others there are no higher powers guiding my path, but that’s not the case, is it, Solas? _You_ have been. _And_ the Elder One,” she allowed.

He gave her a startled look, and she turned her gaze back out at the horizon.

“Does that make you my gods? To have such power over my life, my decisions, my path?"

She could feel Solas harden behind her, and she tried to convince herself that she wasn’t trying to push his buttons to hurt him, wasn’t trying to take advantage of old wounds she knew still bled. She had a reason, and it was by necessity that she drew this pain to the surface.

“I trust you, Solas,” she told the wind firmly. A decision, a promise. “I have, and will continue to put my faith in you. But you don’t trust _me.”_

He had not moved, which was good—he had not fled. He did not speak, however, and waited for her to enlighten him unto her motives in this confrontation. She was happy to oblige.

“I know you by your actions. You have not led me astray, or into situations that might corrupt my purpose or contradict my principles. But I can’t deny that as long as your motivations and plans are hidden from me, you _are_ using me.”

She turned to place her back against the stone, and she held both her hands out to him in entreaty. Solas had left his staff hooked to his back, and now he stood as he always stood in her memory: shoulders squared, chin tipped proudly, hands laced behind his back as though he were physically restraining himself from speaking. Solas did not heed her beckoning, and his pale eyes were burnished like a locked eluvian. She had touched the nerve that signaled them all, the source from which so much of his hesitation, his unwillingness to embrace her, stemmed.

“If you’re as canny as I know you are, that imbalance bothers you. It weighs on you. That is why I know you will always pull away—from kissing me, or from being honest with me even as a friend. _That_ is why I am reluctant to open myself to you. I _am_ aware of the imbalance. But more than that, what is the point of offering myself, bare to the soul, if I know you’ll always turn away? I simply don’t understand why. _Am_ I too shem for you? Is it that I have found myself as an authority figure? Is it that you consider me too _simple_ to understand what makes you, you? You say, ‘lead me,’ but I think you have already made the decision not to follow.”

She twisted her face briefly, annoyed at the tears that rose unbidden, and for once she was able to successfully beat them back.

“Whatever the answer, I still trust you. I still want you at my side. And I thank you, sincerely, for bringing us home to Skyhold.” She bowed her head and set her mouth in a grim line to hold back all else she wanted to or could say. For in the silence that lasted, her mind continued to piece together frantic words into pleading cries she would never voice, desperate things to pull him back when he was already gone.

Solas’s voice was even and guarded when at last he spoke, and he asked only one question: “What is it that you want, Ixchel?”

“I want you to trust me,” she said again. “And I want you to stay. The other things… Well. It must be so rare for you to be posed questions you cannot answer, _hahren_. Those, you can keep.”

Ixchel pushed herself up from the wall, and she met his eye bravely. She saw nothing there, and she could not see under his polite mask. But she saw _him_ , even so, and she had tried to tell him as much.

“It has been…a long time since I could trust someone,” he said.

A crack in the mask.

 _Unbelievably_ , a crack in the mask.

“Take your time,” she told him gently. “It is not an ultimatum.”

She stepped past him and recklessly slid down the rubble of a ruined wall. She needed to find a quiet place to have a breakdown, and her ruined quarters waited for her to come home.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel threw herself into the reconstruction efforts. She was intimately involved in assigning purpose to each place, directing recruits and workers to duties she knew they would thrive in—because she had seen them do so, in a future so far removed.

She hardly waited for them to name her Inquisitor. She even had a moment where she wondered if they would, in fact, give her the position this time around.

But then one morning, as she brought newly-fashioned tools from the Undercroft out to the workmen, she caught her four advisers huddled together and knew they were coming to a decision. Cassandra saw her and nodded for the others to look in her direction, and Ixchel was at once frozen by their stares.

Cassandra beckoned her over.

She looked around for any place or person to hand her burdens off to and found Blackwall passing nearby. She shoved them into his arms and ran to meet Cassandra as Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine wandered off.

“Walk with me, Ixchel,” Cassandra said. They passed by the yawning portcullis, where carts already streamed in from across Ferelden. The Seeker and the Herald made their way to the upper courtyard slowly, observing the unpacking merchants and eager recruits. “They arrive daily from every settlement in the region. Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage. If word has reached these people, it will have reached the Elder One. We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond the war we anticipated when we formed the Inquisition.”

“With such mighty leaders, I'm not surprised the world needed to conjure a threat _truly_ worthy of your movement,” Ixchel teased darkly. “But the Breach has been sealed. The Elder One might seek revenge against me, but who’s to say that there is another war awaiting us, Cassandra?”

“We have discussed this at length,” the Seeker replied. “It is clear to us that he sees you as his rival. He sees in you what we all see—and it has nothing to do with the mark in your hand, or the tear in the sky.”

They stood at the base of the stairs to Skyhold’s main hall, and Ixchel could hear the murmurs of a crowd forming below her in the lower courtyard.

“This journey has tested us, no doubt. Among us it is difficult to make any decisions. But you… Your decisions saved the Mages and the Templars from servitude to the Elder One. Your determination let us heal the sky. Your forward-thinking saved many civilians in Haven. Your stalwart hope lead us out of our wandering to a stronghold none of us could have imagined. You are the creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. _All_ of us."

She pinned Ixchel with her gleaming eyes and in them Ixchel saw a flash of Faith, that beacon whose light Ixchel strived to follow and keep alight.

Ixchel shadowed her up the stairs to where Leliana awaited them.

“The Inquisition requires a singular leader. And you have already been leading it.”

Ixchel looked out and saw them: Threnn, Adan, Minaeve, Lysette, Barris, Fiona—even Roderick. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the men and women who had been their sworn enemies not so long ago. And they all looked to her with Faith.

“I would be terrified handing this power to anyone. But since the beginning, you have shown who you serve, what path you follow. I believe there would be no Inquisition without you.”

“I have made it clear I serve the people, above any ingrained niceties to oppressors— _even_ those who would be our allies,” Ixchel said. “I have made it clear that I believe in the restoration of elven history and glory. I have made it clear that I do not agree with the ways of the Circles and the Templars. I have controversial views on the nature of spirits.”

Leliana and Cassandra looked at each other with wry smiles on their faces. “Yes. You have never pretended to be something you were not. We are only asking you to be something we know you already _are_. Wherever you lead us… We have faith in you.”

Ixchel approached Leliana and grasped the sword of the Inquisitor. Her chest was tight, knowing now why it was styled as it was: a gift to an Inquisitor who had been a dragon-slayer first. She grasped it and considered its weight, its history. She recalled the melancholy of her conversation with Ameridan—about weight and responsibility, about what happened when one placed one’s faith in others…

Cassandra stepped up beside her. “Have our people been told?” she called down to Josephine.

“They have,” she replied, voice tight with pride. “And soon, the world.”

Ixchel turned to face her people gathered below, and she addressed them all.

“I am not chosen by a higher power. I _have_ chosen. We will challenge the Elder One, and we shall challenge _any_ power that might strike at the people. I am an elf standing for all of Thedas, and together, we shall be a force that shakes the world.”

“Commander, will they follow?”

Cullen rounded on his soldiers. “Inquisition! Will you follow?”

There was a roar.

“Will you fight?”

Ixchel felt her heart reverberate with the acclaim.

“Will we triumph?!”

Cullen turned back to Ixchel, who raised Ameridan’s sword high, and her Commander raised his own in response. “Your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel gathered her advisers in the Great Hall. “I doubt you would have made this announcement if we were not poised to act on some matter of consequence,” she said over her shoulder. “To arm me with a title—it must be consequential indeed.”

They exchanged approving looks. “Indeed,” Leliana said. “Follow us…to our war room.”

There were, in fact, many ways in which she could act.

Venatori mages had been seen in great numbers along the Storm Coast, and it was likely they had a secret port in the area. Destroying it would cut off a valuable inlet for Venatori in Ferelden and send a strong message to allies and enemies. And Varric and Leliana both had been looking in to Carta trade routes to track down Corypheus’s red lyrium sources, and they both agreed that the Storm Coast was a likely nexus point. On the route to the coast, Crestwood had developed a _giant_ rift beneath its flooded quarter, and her personal presence in the area would not go unnoticed.

“There are two other matters of great importance,” Josephine said after Ixchel had reviewed each of their reports, notes, and recommendations. “The plot you uncovered against Empress Celene—we still have not obtained an invitation to her Imperial Ball. I believe I understand the reason why.” She moved two pieces on their large map of Orlais and rested them upon the Exalted Plains. “She still clashes violently with Duke Gaspard’s forces. No invitations to the ball have been sent out yet, and my contacts believe it is because she is waiting for Gaspard to agree to peace talks. What better place to host them, than in the public eye at Halamshiral?”

Ixchel pondered that as she contemplated the Exalted Plains. “I can’t think of a worse place, to be quite honest,” she said with a smirk, “but tell me. Do we have any means by which we might encourage both sides to talk with one another?”

“We have some ideas,” Leliana demurred. “Most of them rely on events that have not yet come to pass. Most of them do not involve your direct involvement—unless you would like to interrupt your adventures on the coast with some balls and the Game?”

“Absolutely not,” Ixchel said.

“Didn’t think so.” Leliana laughed. “Now, for the second issue that requires your attention… Varric has approached us…with a contact…who might have some more information about the Elder One. Given the nature of some of his connections, I understand that he has asked you to speak with him in private. Do report back to us what you find.”

“Trust me if I find it necessary to remain discretionary?”

“You have earned that,” Cullen agreed.

Ixchel nodded. “Then I will speak with him now, unless there is anything else.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel had to do some significant tracking to find Varric. He had hidden himself and Hawke well—and not in the same place she had found him last time. Instead, she found them both in what would become the wine cellar, amid the spiderwebs.

They both jumped when she opened the door, and Hawke had twirled his staff and crackled with lightning—but Varric quickly slipped between them protectively.

“Ah, Inquisitor. Meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke chuckled darkly. “Don’t use that title much anymore.”

“Hawke, the Inquisitor.” Varric ran a hand across his face and looked up at Ixchel. “I figured he might have some friendly advice on our Elder One. He and I did fight him, after all.”

Ixchel moved over to a cobweb-covered crate and sat on it. “Alright. Fill me in.”

Hawke raised his eyebrows at her, then followed her lead and perched himself on another crate. “You’ve already dropped half a mountain on the bastard. I’m sure anything I can tell you pales in comparison.”

“You say you’ve fought him before,” Ixchel said, addressing the two of them. “Let’s start with the basics, and tell me everything—don’t assume any detail is unimportant.”

“She’s not your usual type, Varric,” Hawke drawled.

“Oh, she’s the usual,” Varric replied. The corners of his eyes creased with a sad smirk. “Places the same value on her own life as you do.”

“None at all, then.” Hawke shook his head. “Now _that_ is a can of worms. You’re right, I’d much rather talk about Corypheus.”

As Hawke and Varric told her about their experience with Corypheus, she thought back to the one time she had visited Weisshaupt…

“—we’ll do whatever it takes to make sure this is the last we see of him,” Hawke promised.

“I welcome you, then, and your Warden ally. I just spoke to the war council, and they’d like to send me out to the Storm Coast via Crestwood for several major tasks. Travel with us—no, I insist. And no, I won’t be bringing Cassandra, Varric.” She leveled a tense smile on her dwarf friend. “I’ll gather Solas and Cole. Hawke, you can join us just outside of Skyhold, if it would help avoid a commotion.”

“I appreciate it.” He leaned back against the wall, then noticed something on one of the shelves. She left before he could comment on the Grey Whiskey bottle with his brother’s name on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of any of the current chapters, this is the one I'm most curious to hear your thoughts on. Thank you for your comments thus far!


	25. Stopovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/29/20

Ixchel did not need to _find_ Cole to ask him if he’d like to come with her. She looked around a little, but she tried to communicate her intent to help put many spirits to rest, and that was Compassion enough for him. He showed up in full Inquisition scout armor—plus his hat—and a pair of wicked knives she was certain were from the barrel of confiscated daggers.

She offered him a smile, then went to find Solas. She was nervous, after their last conversation—she had tried to give him some space, and he had kept noticeably out of sight as well. It had seemed as though he were always just-leaving a room before she entered. But Cole, once he had joined her, led her straight to him. He was in the entryway to what would become her quarters; in the meantime, she had been camping out on the floor in front of the fireplace in Josephine’s office.

Solas was considering the Templar banner that happened to be moldering on her wall. She was about to say he was welcome to burn it, when Cole bounced forward.

“There are many spirits to meet, Solas,” he announced helpfully. “The Champion wants you to see her greet them.”

 _Fenedhis_ , she thought stiffly. “Yes, well, there is urgent business in Crestwood, I need a mage, and I would rather not butt heads with Vivienne or Dorian about the nature of demons.” She opened her arms respectfully. “And I think you might enjoy this trip.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. There was no hint anywhere on his face that he was uncomfortable with her presence, but she _felt_ it. “I have heard that the large rift in that area formed after the Breach was sealed. It would be wise to find ancient elvhen artifacts to stabilize the Veil, once this tear is sealed, if it truly is so weak.”

“That’s a yes, then?” she asked hesitantly.

Solas allowed her a twitch that resembled a smile.

“Would you be able to leave at sundown?”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel’s hart had died.

Harts were not meant to be beasts of burden—they were hardly meant to be beasts of war. But it had been strong-willed and far too smart for its own good, and it had put its delicate ankles to hard work dragging the sick and the injured behind it halfway across the Frostbacks.

When Cullen came to tell her that its hobbled legs were beyond hope, she had not wept. More than anything, she understood that it had come to its fate knowingly. She did not weep, but she lay with it under a tree and listened to it sing mournfully in its dry, keening voice . Dalish joined her, and together they blessed it and soothed it and told it stories of the great mounts of the Elvhen who had gone before it. Ixchel cradled its mighty head in her lap, half-lying between its noble crown of horns, and she stroked its soft muzzle as she honored it.

Only after its heavy breaths had eased and its big brown eyes shut, did Ixchel reach for her dagger.

So it was that she set out now to Crestwood on the back of a horse Dennet had acquired for her in the weeks prior to Haven’s fall: a fully-trained Dalish All-Bred named Isenam due to his ferocious nature against those who might do him harm. He was a good horse, and smart like her hart, but his steps were slower and less nimble. She mourned her hart as she led Varric, Solas, and Cole out of Skyhold.

Cole didn’t need a horse—indeed, he was happy to jump between each of their saddles, hardly adding any weight to the mount—but Ixchel made him ride one out so that they could make sure Hawke had one. The fool had made the journey to Skyhold on foot.

They did not make it very far, given their late outset. They camped in the shadow of a cliff to block some of the wind, and Solas and Hawke set up wards in the dark while Varric and Ixchel warmed their rations around the fire. Cole had vanished, and Ixchel supposed he was speaking with Hawke and Solas.

“So,” Varric said at last. “You decide if it’s good or bad?”

She stared into the coals rather than look at him. “My luck?” She snorted. “I know you heard what I shouted in Dorian’s face. And now I’m alive, and the world still needs saving, and it’s in my hands again. So, bad.”

Varric sighed. “You know, if you know the story of Andraste, you know bad luck is sort of her thing.”

Ixchel tightened her grip on her set of tongs. “I’m really sorry, Varric.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.” He met her gaze across the fire. “What I do know is most of the people who care about you have already needled you about it plenty. I’m just worried for you, Sunshine. My first instinct is to try and make you laugh, but I know how to shut up and listen…”

“That’s… That’s not it, Varric.” She tilted her head, as though to shift the weight of her tears back into her throat. “I know you care. It means so, so much to me. But I’ve got this shit in my head and I know how much it hurts me and how little I can do about it. I know how much more it would hurt you all, and I don’t think you can do anything about it.”

“Sure, can’t cure it with a story or a well-timed punchline. But I can do my best to remind you why you might _not_ want to die today.”

“You been talking to Cullen?”

“To be fair, seems like half of your friends have the same mantra,” Varric pointed out.

Ixchel was quiet for a moment. “I just don’t know how to talk about it,” she said, then faltered.

There was simply too much, and too little, to explain. Because in the end, it wasn’t about rejected love and wondering what that said about her worth, her capabilities. It wasn’t about not being able to prevent the end of the world. It wasn’t even about all of her friends-who-became-family leaving her to go their separate ways. All of it, in the end, was just one distraction after another to keep her alive until the next task fell into her lap. The friends she loved? People to fill time with that was otherwise empty. The people she helped protect? Duties she performed as a way to convince herself that she wasn’t just wasting breath by existing in a world she could not change. _If tomorrow does not matter, then today will,_ had been her guiding focus.

And it all fell apart because _she got tired of it._

She had warned Cullen how precarious it was, _willing_ oneself to live each and every day.

She had told Solas how close she walked to Despair, placing herself in people—as fallible and immutable as they always would ever be.

And the source of that exhaustion? Something so inexplicably entangled in her nature that she still did not understand it. It wasn’t that she was hopeless, per say. She chose to hope every day that she lived. But hope was supposed to be something that made you feel alive, that made you _hope_ for fuck’s sake. But hope to her was something she had to carve into herself day after day, as painful and as unmotivating as it was. She had to choose it, place it purposefully in the hands of those around her, throw it out willfully into the world and demand it lived up to her hopes.

That’s why she admired Cassandra so much, with her self-sustaining Faith.

Perhaps there was just something in her predisposed to being _tired_. Perhaps she should be Harrowed like a Seeker, have her spirit bolstered by a Spirit of Faith. Perhaps that would be the cure.

Or perhaps it would kill her.

Ixchel physically smacked herself in the side of the head to knock the thought from her.

“It’s not like there’s a right way to talk about it,” Varric said. “And you won’t know if there is, unless you try.”

“I’ll give you this, Varric.” She turned over the sausages on the fire, then rubbed her temples wearily. “I have nothing except my duty to save the world and help people. You know I have no family. You might say I have my friends. But friends leave, no matter how much you love them.”

Ixchel’s hands went to her eyes, which stung from more than just the smoke from the fire. It hurt to summarize her demons so succinctly. And it had made her realize something.

Solas had trapped her in a duty she could never complete. And the people she loved were the exact same kind of people who couldn’t see suffering in the world and not act upon it—so she could not rightly ask any of them to stay, to ease her own suffering, when she thought that their duties were more important. And since her duty was so wide-ranging, and so utterly without end, she could never allow herself to settle down with any of them, in their little corners of the world.

Varric’s silks shifted, his leathers rasped, and he eventually settled himself beside her. He dragged her under one arm and pressed his cheek to her head.

“Believe me. I know they leave.”

-:-:-:-:-

“I would never have pegged you for an Andrastian, Varric.”

Solas was positively cheerful. He seemed to have a great deal of respect and admiration for Hawke, especially after whatever bonding experience they had setting wards around the camp the night previous. He was a more active participant in the group’s conversations than Ixchel had ever seen, and for once it was her turn to be the brooding one in the back.

“It’s a great story. It’s got heroism, love, betrayal, and random musical numbers. What’s not to like?” Varric gave a barking laugh, and Hawke shook his head, grinning. “I don’t have a nug in this race. It could be bullshit, it could be true. I’ll never know. But I like the idea that maybe you could save the world with a song.”

“And you _really_ don’t,” Hawke said, looking at Ixchel. “Despite all the bullshit that’s happened to you.” He pointed at Varric as if they had rehearsed it.

The dwarf began ticking things off on one hand. “You were saved from an explosion that leveled a mountaintop, and fell out of the Fade _. You traveled through time._ Faced down one of the ancient Magisters who started the Blights. Had a mountain come down on you. _And lived.”_

“Despite your best efforts, as I understand it,” Hawke finished, his voice sharp and his smile keen.

Ixchel had not known Hawke so well before she allowed him to sacrifice himself to the Nightmare’s Fade. He had never traveled with them, always setting off ahead on his own. Once all of her friends began pointing out how willingly she would sacrifice her own life to save others, she began to think that maybe she _did_ remind Varric of Hawke.

But now she was _actually_ getting to know Hawke, and she was a little insulted, and a little intimidated. Garrett Hawke was supposed to be a diplomatic man, kind, warm—that’s what she’d always heard, at least. But it seemed that the harm that had befallen Kirkwall, the fears that had driven him into hiding, and his time alone in the wild had hardened him. He had a gleam in his eye when he teased her, and he liked to tease her about the most humorless topics. Perhaps he saw a foil in her. Perhaps it was cathartic to him to point out what he saw in her mirror. But it was painful, and she suspected she wasn't the only one of the two who felt it.

“Nobody’s perfect,” she said in her driest tone.

And he and Varric kept _looking_ at each other anytime she spoke, as if she was reading the script of a play they had already seen.

“Fenris always said that fate was just a word for the Maker’s poor sense of humor,” Hawke said. “I was a younger man, then. Told him it was a gift.”

“And he told you to return it.”

Varric and Hawke looked at each other, again, but this time it was with such conspiratorial fondness that Ixchel ached. It had been a long time since she had felt like that around anyone. She, Varric, Bull, and Dorian had all in their own ways been at it, _us against the world._ Their sharpened wits bounced off each other’s hardened shells so prettily, and it had given them such entertainment among their ranks for so long thereafter. Even after Solas left the first time, she hadn’t lost that edge—and whenever she ran into them, those edges fit together like puzzle pieces.

But she had spent many long years after the Exalted Council alone, and she didn’t know how to be the person who had come before. Not anymore. And especially not now.

Perhaps trying would be enough.

Cole appeared then behind Hawke in the saddle.

“I think I have it. Let me try again.”

Hawke chuckled. “Alright, kid, let’s see what you’ve got.”

“Knock, knock.”

Varric called: “Who’s there?”

“Cole.”

“Cole who?”

“It’s me, Cole. That is my name.”

When the whole party burst into raucous laughter, Cole’s pale face split into a wide smile. No one had the heart to tell him that he still didn’t get it.

-:-:-:-:-

“You’re the Inquisitor,” Hawke said.

Ixchel raised her head from where it had lolled against the tree trunk and she opened bleary eyes to pin him. “Whatcha gettin’ at?”

“You didn’t ask for the job, but you’ve taken on the responsibility. You’ve got thousands of lives riding on your decisions. You bear that weight all day.”

“I can guess you know how that feels, Champion,” she said.

Hawke was lying on his side, facing her across the fire, and she suspected he had been studying her—perhaps for hours—while she nodded off. He gave her the most solemn look, and she sat up a little. “Yeah,” he said. “You need a place where you can be safe knowing someone else is in charge for a bit.”

“Oh, shut it, Chuckles,” Varric groaned. “The only Tevinter she’s got wouldn’t, ah, indulge a woman that way.”

“Doesn’t have to be a Tevinter!” Hawke protested. “Fenris is also an elf, and a murderer, and a brooding piece of shit.”

Ixchel choked on her own breath and had to hunch over to catch it again. When she did, she began to cackle. “Don’t you dare,” she interrupted herself, pointing at Varric before he could make any remark about Solas, and then she looked at Hawke. “But if you’re saying you’d prescribe me some time with this Fenris… Hah! Gotcha.”

She tossed a handful of dirt playfully in his direction; his face had turned red as rashvine under his tattoos. She couldn’t help the glance she gave in Solas’s direction, but he was pointedly staring at Cole, who was whispering to him—and Cole was staring at her. She didn’t doubt for a second that Solas had _opinions_ about Hawke’s banter, despite his apparent distraction.

“He acts like he’s in charge, Champion, but it’s really you,” Cole called out.

“Fenris and I are consenting adults, and there’s nothing wrong with what we choose to do in bed,” Hawke replied. “Now, if an Archdemon would like to swoop down and swallow me, I’d be fine with that.”

“Isn’t this _literally_ what you were just recommending to me?” Ixchel tossed back.

“In not so many words!”

Hawke petulantly froze the ground underneath her rump so she jumped up yowling in shock, and Varric nearly fell off his seat laughing so hard, and across the fire, Ixchel saw Solas look pointedly away into the woods. But she also saw his shoulders twitching with concealed mirth.

-:-:-:-:-

They stayed at an inn the night before they were to reach the Crestwood county border, mostly so they could each bathe and replenish some of their more mundane supplies. With her hair still dripping down her back, she joined the others in the parlor for a game of Wicked Grace. It was a quiet inn, and it seemed to be primarily populated by local drunks rather than travelers, which made it the perfect place for a game with raucous stakes like _strip-grace._

She had been looking forward to it since Varric suggested it the day before: she knew all of Varric’s tells, and he knew none of hers. For once, she might even win. Hawke was a wild card, and Solas she knew would pick up the rules after the first game and become a formidable opponent afterward, so her main hope was to emerge victorious in the first round and drown herself in drink thereafter, betting low.

Ixchel had not quite counted on Hawke being _so terrible_ at gambling, or quite so insistent on asserting his manliness by telling a story for every scar that was revealed whenever he lost an article of clothing. It began with the three scars on the right side of his face: one from his brother, one from the Arishok, and one from Fenris himself. Then came the burns on his palms from a pyromancy incident as he removed his gloves; a knotted scar on a forearm from a stray Mabari he rescued and won over; a series of whipping marks on his shoulder—they never ended.

Ixchel won the first game, to her delight, before Hawke had even lost his shirt—Varric had coquettishly removed his gloves in the one round he lost, and Solas had shrugged out of his sweater and left himself in the jacket he wore underneath. For the second game, she still did not lose nearly as terribly as Hawke. But when he began unlacing his boots and talking about a scar on his big toe, she threw down her cards.

"I can't take it anymore," she announced, and as she began unbuttoning her coat, all eyes at the table locked on her. She grinned wolfishly. “Which one?” she asked, nodding her head at Varric.

“Well, let’s guess first,” Hawke complained. “That arm—was it from getting the Anchor?”

“Nah, Bull says it’s a dragon,” Varric said.

“Yeah. Melted an entire sleeve of my armor to me,” she allowed proudly, and she shrugged out of her coat and began working on her shirt. “Jumped in front of…some people I cared about. Fell off a cliff after.” Ixchel was suddenly second-guessing her decision to allow this interrogation. It didn’t help that the very men she had jumped in front of, to protect from dragon fire, were seated right in front of her.

“How about this,” and Varric gestured emphatically at his chest. Her shirt had come unbuttoned and now hung off of her shoulders, leaving her bare except for her wrappings. Beneath her collarbones, circular discolorations in her skin spiraled and disappeared where her chest was bound.

“Arcane Horror. There was an abandoned Chateau in these woods…” She shivered dramatically. “Got pinned against a wall by some corpses and got a blast from the thing.”

“This one.” Hawke slapped his neck.

“Terror bite. _Lovely_ things. Thought it’d be septic.”

Solas raised an elegant hand, drawing their attention without saying a word, and he drew one finger slowly down the very center of his chest. His eyes did not move to the corresponding place on her body but rather held her gaze intently—and still, he was silent. She could feel her heart racing at that look, and she scowled at him, even as her ears burned with a blush.

“How did you—”

“He _did_ tend to you when the Seeker threw you in a cell with us,” Varric reminded her. "You were half-dead and we had to figure out why."

She ran a hand across her face and groaned. She knew that there was a hair-thin scar in the exact line Solas had drawn. It had been gifted to her so generously by a Sentinel Shadow outside of the Temple of Mythal, after she had already been downed by a Red Templar Behemoth. It had been a dirty tactic, but fortunately the ancient elvhen blade had been mostly stopped by her armor. The wound was still deep, but it had not reached her heart.

“Three-way fight, I got pummeled by both,” she explained. “Threw me on my back, and then the other one tried to carve out my heart.”

“It was a very fine blade, to have left so thin a scar,” Solas said.

Ixchel nodded once but did not explain further. She shrugged out of her shirt and discarded it in the pile with Hawke’s clothes, and she downed the rest of her drink. “Alright, alright. I’ve proved my point.”

“We’re two tough bastards,” Hawke said cheerfully.

Varric sighed as he dealt the next round out. “Please don’t tempt fate.”

Ixchel looked back in Solas’s direction and found his eyes had wandered from her face—just for an instant.

Her blush likely reached her _toes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)


	26. Promotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10/30/20

Ixchel thumped Hawke on the chest. “There she is!”

And then she ran to meet Harding. Before the dwarf had even turned, Ixchel threw her arms around her. The scout shouted in surprise, then returned the hug by tightening her grip around Ixchel’s neck. “Your Worship?! Not a fan of heights!”

Ixchel set Harding down. “I’m so sorry I didn’t write sooner,” she exclaimed.

“Lady Nightingale wrote the night that Haven fell,” Lace said shakily, and she smoothed back some stray hair that had fallen loose of her braids. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”

 _“‘Your Worship’?”_ Hawke echoed. "Oh, I like that."

“It’s good to see you safe,” said Harding. “There’s trouble ahead.”

Ixchel’s face fell. “Couldn’t we send you to a nice beach one of these days? I’ll have to ask Leliana about that.”

“I _will_ be heading for the Storm Coast in a few days,” her lead scout offered.

“I said a _nice_ beach. Are you on edge, Lace? I should alert the entire Inquisition.”

“Or increase my hazard pay. That’s an option.”

Hawke and Varric both chuckled behind Ixchel.

They stopped laughing as soon as Lace showed them the massive rift churning the flood waters below their position.

“Oh.”

“Crestwood was the site of a flood ten years ago during the Blight,” she explained. “It’s not the only rift in the area, but after it appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake. You’ll have to fight through them to get to the cave where Ser Hawke’s Grey Warden friend is hiding.”

“It sounds…different,” Cole sighed. “The water changes the song.”

“I wish we could get better acquainted, Lace. When the dead aren’t rising and mountains aren’t falling, perhaps?”

Harding tried to hide her smile. “The world would crumble to dust before you ran out of ills to fight, Your Worship.”

“You know. Saving the world and all that. Busy, busy.” Ixchel sighed and glanced back at the others. Solas was staring out at the rift pensively, and Cole had his head cocked, listening to music she could not hear. Not at the moment, at least.

“Think someone in the new Crestwood can tell us how to get into the lake?” Varric asked.

“Maker knows, they should want to help,” Hawke muttered.

“Be careful out there,” said Harding. “And, Ser Hawke? It’s an honor.”

“Stay dry, dear Lace,” Ixchel said, giving her shoulder a bump with her own. “And don’t you dare call me ‘Your Worship’ ever again.”

“Yesser, Inquisitor.”

“I’m convinced you don’t know my name!” Ixchel cried.

“You could stop calling me Lace too, you know.”

“It doesn’t make you any less deadly,” Ixchel protested. “And hey, your enemies will underestimate you!”

Lace grinned, shook her head, and bowed herself out of the conversation.

“You started it!” Ixchel called after her, then turned back to her troupe. But Hawke’s attention had already drifted down the road. Ixchel immediately unhooked her sword, and led the way.

A woman was sprawled out on the ground, covering her head, while a Grey Warden knelt above her, his body as a shield, while his ally fended off a swarm of corpses.

Ixchel charged in, Solas’s barrier settling over her shoulders, and then she leaped over the ice mines Hawke set down in front of her. With Cole weaving in and out in the spaces where her blade left vacant, Varric’s crossbow bolts whizzing well over her head, and magic thrumming in her ears, they made short work of the corpses.

Ixchel gave Cole a warning glance, and he vanished to go hide behind Solas. Hawke had also made himself inconspicuous down the road, back turned to the Wardens.

“I’d go back to the village, miss. These roads aren’t safe,” a Warden said to the woman they’d saved.

“You must be the Inquisitor,” his companion said, nodding at Ixchel. “Only two-handed Dalish I’ve ever seen. The Grey Wardens thank you for your aid. The villagers of Crestwood require more assistance.”

“And that’s not why you’re here,” she said flatly.

“My orders forbid it,” the man said grimly. “Crestwood was only a detour.”

 _“Is_ that all the aid we can offer these people?” his companion asked, watching the village woman retreat up the road.

The Warden lowered his gaze. “If the Inquisition can help, I beg you to do what you can. The villagers have already lost too many.”

“Ser,” his companion said softly.

Ixchel shook her head. “And here I thought we were all on the same side, saving Thedas,” she said, sighed, and gave them an expectant look. The men gathered their packs and continued up the road after the woman who had fled.

If Ixchel remembered correctly, the woman had approached her later in Crestwood to say she was enlisting with the Wardens. That was before Ixchel had met Stroud, and before she knew to warn the girl off her course. Perhaps they could recruit her for the Inquisition—a larger purpose, and a safer one, for the moment.

Her own companions rejoined her once the Wardens were out of earshot.

“They stay by oaths sworn in blood. Not theirs, then their own. They’re true.”

“That’s…a nice way of putting it,” Hawke muttered. “Nicer than they might deserve.”

“Is that a Shade over there?” Ixchel charged. “Rage, too!”

“This is going to be a long slog,” Varric grumbled.

-:-:-:-:-

She _did_ manage to recruit Jana to the Inquisition over the Wardens, with Solas’s help. As they left the woman’s hut and continued on, Ixchel turned to thank him for his back-up, but he spoke before she could.

“We should make note of these spindleweed patches,” he said. “The Inquisition will need it in large quantities for salves.”

Ixchel tried not to wilt at his business-like tone, and she nodded. “Of course.”

They reached the main village from the back, but there were shouts rising up ahead of them. “They’re at the gates!” a woman screamed.

Hawke led the charge this time, staff-blade first. With the full momentum of his body behind it, he drove his staff through the desiccated chest of a corpse—and then caused it to explode in a blast of contagious electricity that stunned the other encroaching demons.

Ixchel jumped in with him, taking the head off a Shade. One wave—two waves—three waves of corpses came up from the lake before Ixchel was satisfied they’d beaten them back for a time. She went to rejoin her companions and found Varric consoling a guardsman over the state of affairs.

“The corpses are coming up from where Old Crestwood used to be,” Hawke murmured to her.

“Let’s go see if the mayor knows any more about the Blight in the area.”

The storm was only getting worse, the villagers were murmuring, and Ixchel could see it was true. Lightning touches down with unnerving frequency and proximity, and the rain seemed to be getting somehow…wetter.

Ixchel angrily pushed her sopping wet hair out of her face and stomped up to the mayor’s house. This had been one of the worst cases for her to judge. She had even hoped that Leliana wouldn’t be able to track him down, but of course the mayor was sloppy in his panic and his guilt. She had _believed_ him when he said so many of them had the Blight, and so many wouldn’t leave their Blighted kin behind. She had sympathized with him, knowing that no Grey Wardens were going to come and save them. But she also had no room in her moral code to allow anyone to succumb to their base instincts and let fear rule them.

So she had executed him. The man who stood in front of her now, looking drawn and sick with guilt and worry.

His eyes traced the vallaslin on her face, then the Inquisition heraldry on her armor. “You must be the Inquisitor. Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood. At your service…despite everything. Are you…here to stop the undead?”

“We could. We should,” Cole corrected. “Everyone here is so scared.”

“How can I get to the light in the Lake? Caves?”

The mayor nodded. “Yes. There are some below Old Crestwood. Darkspawn flooded it ten years ago during the Blight. It wiped out the village, killing the refugees we took in.”

“I saw a dam,” Varric said. “Usable?”

“Drain the—” The mayor’s eyes went wide in horror. “There must be some other way!”

“Yes, I’ll go to Orzammar and enter the Deep Roads and come at it from below. _That_ sounds like the solution,” Ixchel snapped. “Your people are tired and scared. What harm is there, draining it?”

“I… I only protest b-because you’d have to evict the bandits in the old fort to use the dam. I can’t ask you to risk your life!”

 _Damn. That was almost a good excuse,_ Ixchel thought grimly. “I’ve slain dragons right in their nests with their dragonlings all around me, Dedrick. What’s a bandit?”

He exhaled heavily. “Alright. This key unlocks the gate to the dam controls. But… Inquisitor… I would not linger there.”

“What can you tell us about the bandits at the fort?” Hawke grunted.

“The Highwaymen? Thugs and thieves. They make a living picking off caravans from the King’s Road.”

“Here’s my plan,” Ixchel announced, looking from Dedrick to her party. “Clear out the fort. Set up Inquisition holdings and move the villagers there until we seal the rift and settle the undead.”

“Oh, Your Worship,” Dendrick croaked, almost but not quite sounding grateful.

“You’re welcome,” she said, then left him quaking in his house. “I don’t want the bandits coming up on us while we search out Stroud,” she muttered to Hawke.

“Good thinking,” he replied.

“What’s it with people who wait for the first sign of trouble to turn to banditry?” Varric asked as they headed for the road again. “You think they sit around, sharpening axes, waiting for some disaster?”

“What a hobby,” Hawke agreed. “What a hobby.”

Ixchel fortunately didn’t need to come up with some obfuscation for why she knew of a back entrance to Caer Bronach, for Hawke noticed the path along the shore first. He suggested they scout along it, in case there were a fault in the walls or some smuggler’s tunnels. That was how they found the cave; Varric picked the lock, and Solas said: “Ah, yes. _This_ is the kind of place I would expect to have giant spiders.”

Cole shuddered. “So many legs.”

“Unfortunately, I agree with your assessment,” she muttered. “Come on.”

They cleared the cave of spiders, and then as Ixchel looked up at the ladders and hoped that the door to the caer was unlocked, Cole whispered: “They’re frightened inside. Trapped by the walls that protect them.”

Ixchel glanced back at him. “Are they afraid of the undead?”

He nodded.

“It’s always a good idea to cut off the head of the snake before you go into the nest,” Hawke said. “Perhaps with no one cracking the whip over them, they’d scatter.”

“Or not,” Ixchel said dubiously. “Worth trying anyway.”

She started climbing up the ladder, and when she reached the top and hauled herself into the empty store room, she winced at the loud rasp of her armor on the stone floor.

“Your armor is not very subtle, Inquisitor,” Solas murmured.

“If someone else _wants_ to lead the way, be my guest.”

Varric chuckled and patted Cole on the shoulder. “Know what you need to do, kid?”

The spirit unsheathed his daggers, but Ixchel put a hand out. “If you’re in too much danger, flee,” she told him.

“I will find you,” he promised, and then he vanished.

They stood around awkwardly for quite some time. Hawke grumbled, “You think he’s trying to take out the boss on his own?”

Varric likewise seemed uneasy. “At what point do we go try to find his body? Wait, he doesn’t have a real body, right…?”

But Ixchel trusted Cole, and she remained silent, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, eyes on the door

When he reappeared inside, the door still had not been opened. “The guards have all moved down to the lower level,” he said. “Run across the courtyard..." He tilted his head to the side, listening to something no one else could hear. _"Now_.”

His four companions obeyed instantly, barreling across the open courtyard with no stray looks around. Ixchel led the way to an arched corridor, then down the hall and up the stairs. She found one man with his throat cut in the next hallway, but she leaped over his body without pause. Then, they were on the battlements, and she could see the tusked helm of the Highwaymen chief standing up near the flagpole. He had not heard them coming.

That did not stop him from putting up a fight. But with Solas’s rift magic, Hawke’s forceful power, Varric’s cover fire and Cole’s whirling daggers, Ixchel was able to back the big man into a corner and overwhelm him. She took his helm off his head and awkwardly carried it out onto the ramparts. A commotion had stirred beneath her, and guards shouted when they saw her—but when she held up the helm a silence fell over them once more.

“I am the Inquisitor,” she called out across the fort. “I shall ask once: _leave_.”

Ixchel gave a nearby owl statue a smug smirk as the bandits began to scurry, picking up whatever they could carry before they ran. “Varric, would you write to Harding—”

“On it.”

“This is a mighty keep,” Solas said from behind her. “I’m certain it would be a boon to Lady Nightingale to have such a safe haven for her agents on the King’s Road.”

Ixchel nodded and turned to him, shoulders slumped a little. “Yes, but it is Ferelden, and Alistair has had a hard enough time keeping his lords in check. I don’t want to claim it as our own without _asking_.”

Solas’s brow creased slightly. “Ferelden has failed the villagers of Crestwood. They deserve better.”

“Oh, and they will get it, from us. I’m certain Alistair would _prefer_ that we hold Caer Bronach. But I’m going to get permission first,” she said firmly. “Varric, hear that?”

Varric raised his quill in assent.

Solas chuckled a little, and then he gave her a softer look than he had in weeks. “You are thoughtful in how you exert your influence.”

She nodded, accepting the compliment, but did not reply directly. “Alright, Hawke. My scouts should be here by sundown. We’ll find Stroud under the cover of night, try to avoid as many of the Wardens as we can. I don’t want to fight them, and I don’t want to draw them after us.”

He tapped his staff, then gave it a twirl. “Lunch in the meantime, then?”

-:-:-:-:-

Harding sent Charter, with villagers in tow, to hold the keep. She brought sour news with her.

“Spotted Venatori up on the hill. They’re studying a set of elvhen ruins. Why, we’re not sure.”

“We’ll take care. Thank you, Charter.” Ixchel nodded at Varric, who handed Charter a stack of sealed envelopes. “When you have the time and the ravens, please send these reports back to Sister Nightingale.”

“It shall be done, Your Worship.”

“Let’s go.”

Ixchel led her troupe out of the fort and in the direction of where she knew Stroud’s hiding spot to be. They did, in fact, run in to Venatori and Red Templars—but were able to skirt around them, unnoticed. “What are they doing out here, I wonder?” Hawke said under his breath as they entered Stroud’s cave.

“Charter said they were going for some ruins?” Varric offered.

“Whatever it is, I bet there’s red lyrium around,” Ixchel muttered. “Can you hear it, Cole?”

“It sings…sick music.” He sighed. “Yes, I hear it.”

“That does not bode well,” Solas agreed.

They reached the back of the cave, and Solas eyed the smuggler’s banner of the blood-swiped skull uneasily.  
Ixchel opened the door with a cautious look at Hawke. “He’s expecting us, right, Hawke?” she asked loudly, hoping not to end up on the wrong side of Stroud’s sword this ti—

Well, she had _hoped_ to avoid having Stroud’s sword in her face.

“I brought the Inquisitor, Stroud,” Hawke said, unperturbed.

“Ah. Jean-Marc Stroud. At your service.” The Warden lowered his sword and sheathed it.

She nodded at him. “And I believe I’m at yours, as well. Whatever’s going on with the Wardens is troubling. Even more so for one of their own, I imagine." He inclined his head gravely. "You were involved with Hawke’s first encounter with Corypheus, then?”

Stroud sighed. “Only in the aftermath. The individual Warden who fought alongside Hawke…vanished…in the aftermath, and did not tell the rest of the order what had occurred. Hawke told me, and I told Weisshaupt—but they were happy to put the matter to rest. Few Wardens know of Corypheus’s existence, let alone the extent of his power.” He considered Ixchel solemnly. “I was concerned that he might possess an Archdemon’s ability to survive seemingly fatal wounds, but I was dismissed. I began my own investigation and found clues, but no proof. And then…every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

Hawke’s jaw dropped. “Maker, why didn’t you _tell_ me, Stroud?”

“The Orlesian Wardens bound one another to an oath of secrecy,” Stroud said, regret thick in his voice. “At first, I had not connected the matters—so I honored that oath. But now… I fear it might be Corypheus’s doing.”

“The Calling is a Warden’s sign the Blight is about to take them, right?” Ixchel asked. “Did it hit everyone with the same potency? What do they think that must mean, if you all hear it?”

Stroud began to pace. “It starts with dreams,” he said. “Then, whispers in one’s head. The Warden says their farewells and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat, make sure they remain useful to the end… What it means that every Warden in Orlais hears it at once…? I do not know. He is a Magister as well as a darkspawn—and speaks with the voice of the Blight,” Stroud continued. “The Call is like a wolf in the shadows around a campfire. The creature that makes this music has never known the love of the Maker, but…at times I almost understand it. My brothers and sisters in arms…”

“So they will prepare to go to the Deep Roads,” Ixchel suggested. “How does that serve Corypheus?”

“If he’s _like_ an Archdemon, then only a Warden can kill him, right?” Varric offered.

“With the Wardens of Ferelden decimated and all the Orlesian forces sent to the Deep Roads, there would be no one left to slay the next Archdemon that awakes,” Hawe said disbelievingly.

“There is…another thing.” Stroud stopped pacing and stared at Hawke. “Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent future Blights before we all perished.”

Hawke’s jaw, if it had been dropped open before, was now on the ground.

“Yeesh!” Varric ran a hand across his face.

Solas didn’t need to say anything to convey his displeasure. It radiated off of him like a chill breeze. Cole didn't seem to understand, and Ixchel, of course, was not surprised in the slightest. She ran a hand through her hair and contemplated, briefly, if there was a way she could have brought this up to Leliana and the Inquisition sooner.

Stroud continued speaking before she could follow the train of thought very far.

“My protestations are the reason I have been labeled a traitor,” Stroud said gravely. “I left before they could take action against me, but I learned one thing: Grey Wardens are gathering here, in the Western Approach. There is an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. I plan on leaving immediately to scout the location.”

“Well, fuck,” Hawke and Varric said in unison.

“You can’t go alone,” Hawke said, moving toward Stroud. “If there’s a blood magic ritual involved, if the Call can _control_ Wardens… I’ll go with you. At least until we’re sure what’s going on.”

Stroud clapped him on the shoulder briefly.

“Sorry, Varric.” Hawke sighed. “Guess I won’t be playing you tomorrow.”

“You mean _paying_ me.” But Varric’s face had fallen, disappointed to see his friend go, and Ixchel felt the gnawing pain of guilt in her chest. “I’ll write Fen—”

“Don’t you dare,” Hawke muttered. “But make sure Aveline keeps Carver the hell out of Orlais.”

Varric nodded, and he watched as Hawke and Stroud picked up their arms, gathered Stroud’s supplies, and they set out into the night.

Ixchel put her hand on Varric’s shoulder once the two men had gone, and her dwarven friend put his arm around her waist in kind. Solas stared contemplatively in the direction they had gone. “The Wardens see themselves as the world’s defense against the Blight, do they not?”

“Yeah, everyone knows that,” Varric said.

“When an Archdemon rises, they slay it. What will they do when all Archdemons are slain?”

“Retire?” Varric suggested.

“Without Archdemons, there can be no Blights. Is that the reasoning?”

“Right. Where are you going with this?”

Solas continued to gaze into the dark tunnel from whence they’d come. “I hope they are correct.”

“It’s not like you can study the Blight safely,” Varric said.

“They’ve bought us some time. I will grant them that.”

He turned, and he caught Ixchel’s slack-jawed stare. His eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, but the moment passed. Varric suggested they go to find how to fix the dam mechanisms, and Ixchel nodded, but she found her mind straying back to what Solas had just said. As they walked out of the caves and back toward the fort, she wondered:

_Which came first, the Archdemon or the Blight?_

_The First Blight was after the Magisters entered the Fade… Before that, the Archdemons were just Old Gods, and there were no darkspawn… But if the Magisters were the first darkspawn, how did they make more? How did they spread the Blight?_

_Lyrium is the blood of Titans, and red lyrium is Blighted… I didn’t see any red lyrium in the thaig infested with darkspawn…_

_Corypheus has red lyrium growing out of him for fuck’s sake, so what came first? The Blight or the darkspawn? The Magisters or the darkspawn? The Magisters or the Blight?_

_There’s lyrium in the Fade…?_

Ixchel was so lost in thought that she walked right into a Venatori spellbinder.

In the aftermath of the ensuing battle, Ixchel sat on a rock, badly singed, and let Solas and Varric wag their fingers at her for her carelessness. But she was only listening with half a mind, because she and Cole could both seem to hear it: the song.

“Are you listening?” Varric asked her gruffly.

“Red lyrium, daggers under the skin. It eats them inside until they’re nothing.” Cole nodded. “They hear a different song. The song behind the door old whispers want open.”

 _Archdemons…? The Evanuris…?_ Ixchel stared back at Cole.

“They are dead and dark and done,” was all he said, and she couldn't tell if he was answering her or not.


	27. Duplicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. My fic recommendation today is to go read "Fen'Harel's Teeth" by hes5thlazarus. Their Lavellan is a very mature older tough-as-nails woman who has survived a lifetime of great trauma, the story is full of good old Elven revolution, and it deserves far more attention than it has received thus far.
> 
> 10/31/20

“You need to _rest!”_ Varric insisted in a hissing whisper. “We’ve been traveling and fighting since dawn!”

“I need to destroy that lyrium,” Ixchel shot back. “You coming?”

“We did have a nice break in the afternoon,” Cole said dreamily. Ixchel snorted, which alerted a Red Templar on watch. They opened their mouth to shout a warning, only to suddenly sprout a crossbow bolt in the center of their forehead.

“Thanks,” Ixchel told Varric. “Solas?”

He did not act immediately. She met his eyes and frowned at him. “Solas.”

He reluctantly turned back to the scene and raised an ice wall to block the exit to the grove, blocked on the other side as it was by a sheer cliff face and red lyrium growths.

Ixchel slid out of her hiding place on top of a rock and landed nimbly in the middle of the Red Templar camp.

“Surrender!” she cried. “The Inquisition has you surrounded!”

Of course, the knights did not heed her. But she felt better for giving them the chance.

Ixchel was aware of Solas’s presence close at her back, even as she swung her war hammer wildly, not always looking before she swung. Cole and Varric had known to get out of her way, but she felt her ire rising as Solas remained almost too close to her. She resorted to kicking her enemies away, or shoving them in the chest with the hammer, to give her some space to swing to her front, afraid of winding up from the back and hitting Solas on the upswing.

When the last of the Templars fell, their heads bashed in or their throats cut or their brains punctured by crossbow bolts or their nervous systems fried by electricity, Ixchel rounded on Solas.

 _“What was that?!”_ she demanded.

“The last time you were around this much red lyrium—” he began tersely.

“What, the Anchor?” She threw her head back to stare at the sky in disbelief. Her shoulders slumped. “I’m fine, Solas. Last time, I was caught completely by surprise and…and had an emotional breakdown. That’s all.”

Solas caught her hand and began removing her gauntlet. “Then that is even more unpredictable.”

“Life is unpredictable!” She tried to tug her hand back, but his grip on her wrist tightened. “Solas.”

“…But you can hear this song Cole speaks of.”

“That does concern me,” Ixchel insisted. “I am not trying to downplay your worries, _lethallin_. Please believe me.”

His fingers, cool from the ice he had drawn out of the Fade, found her torn palm, She felt his magic probing it, but she did not fight back. “See?” she asked gently. “It’s fine.”

“Uh, Chuckles? Maybe let the lady with the big sword go—there’s something coming!”

Solas released Ixchel immediately, and they whirled round to face the cave entrance. A set of glowing green eyes bobbing in the darkness, a haggard panting voice echoing out before it…

A wolf staggered out of the cave.

It was one of the massive wolves that had turned so feral under the influence of the Fade rifts—but there was no demon-infested pack following it. The wolf hardly seemed to notice the observers; its hindquarters dragged behind it, limp and bloody, and it only managed to make a few more steps out of the mouth of the cave before it collapsed.

Ixchel and Cole ran to it immediately.

“She knew the tears would tear them apart,” Cole said frantically. His lily-white hands fluttered over the wolf’s haunches, but there was nothing to be done. “The wyvern was a risk, but she had to protect him.”

And so it was. The wolf had carried a small cub out of the cave in its mouth, and as the mother panted and whined, the cub began to cry.

Ixchel knelt beside the wolf and carefully picked up the tiny wolf cub. He was so small, she was certain he was a runt, and he skeletally thin beneath his light gray coat.

“You had one, before,” Cole said to Ixchel, his voice pitched low. “Black, like the mother one.”

She cleared her throat.

“It seems right,” he told her.

“Alright.”

Varric approached cautiously, and then his uncertainty became reverence. “Well,” he said distantly. “At least we know there’s a wyvern in there.”

Ixchel tugged at her cloak with one hand and wound it around herself like a sling, and then she placed the weakly struggling cub into it. “Do you think it’s old enough for solid food?” she asked her friends.

Solas crouched beside her. “Its mother is not starving. I imagine the cub is not just malnourished, but ill as well. Perhaps a parasite."

Her breath caught in her throat. She smoothed back the cub’s ears and cooed at it despite herself. “Is that so? We’ll fish out whatever’s in you and put something better in its place. Like fish.”

Solas tilted his head slightly. His pale eyes glinted in the faint light that was given off by the rune carved into Bianca’s arms. “If it has parasites, or perhaps intestinal worms, you are ill-equipped to treat it. And it will take time that you do not have, Inquisitor.”

“Then his last days will be pampered ones,” she told him. The cub flailed its paws at her, caught her hand and seemed to hold it closer. Her heart melted. “But I have a plan, Solas. Have you heard of hold-beasts?”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel held her wolf cub close as she scoured the Red Templar camp for notes regarding the lyrium trade routes, Venatori movements, or why they were studying elvhen ruins. She itched to go inside the cave and see just what was hidden there, but she knew she was in no shape to fight a wyvern, and the foreknowledge of the truth behind Crestwood’s floodwaters itched at her to act.

Among the Templar’s refuse, Ixchel found the remains of an Inquisition scout. There were red lyrium shards in his mouth, but his head had been savagely bashed in. Ixchel gritted her teeth and pulled off his armor to search his person—she knew it was Butcher, one of Leliana’s spies.

She found blood-soaked papers pressed tight to his crushed chest. The pages were all stuck together, and only a few lines were legible:

_After knowing who he truly serves, it was an easy thing to discover his compatriots. I lifted a list of their spies from one before I left. We have little time before the theft is discovered, so I advise we move posthaste._

_I was followed. I believe I lost my pursuers in Lydes. Only our closest friends know my final destination._

_Butcher_

Ixchel sighed and tried to wipe some of the blood off on the grass. “There is a traitor among Leliana’s closest spies. We should tell her immediately.”

“Maybe…maybe we can save the dam for the afternoon,” Varric suggested wearily. “I’d say ‘morning,’ except… I think it’s just about dawn,”

“Right. You’re right.” Ixchel handed Cole the papers, since he didn’t mind the blood. “Solas, whenever you’re ready?”

With a few well-aimed boulders flung from the far reaches of the Fade, he pulverized most of the red lyrium deposits in the grove. Varric whistled cheerfully once he was done, and he and Cole began wandering in the direction of the Caer. Ixchel was slow to follow. As she tickled her wolf cub’s emaciated ribs, she stared at the statue of Fen’Harel guarding the cave. Solas turned from his work and caught her looking.

“Will you dream here, _lethallin?”_ she asked.

He chuckled. “Perhaps once the dead cease their rising?”

“And the storm passes.” She shook her head and tilted her head back to meet his gaze. He towered over her, and from beneath his cowl, his eyes seemed to glimmer—though now, there was no source of light for them to reflect. She held his gaze. “That wolf was possessed. But not by a demon. And the spirit saved her child. I have to honor that.”

Solas blinked at her slowly, and the glow was gone. “I hope your efforts prove fruitful.”

“It’s the trying that matters, Solas.”

-:-:-:-:-

Charter was on watch when the party returned to Caer Bronach to rest. While Solas and Varric retired for the night, Ixchel stayed up a little longer to try and get her pup to drink some water, and to speak with the elven spy. They sat up by the flagpole, overlooking the glowing, teeming sea of Old Crestwood.

She had informed Charter of Butcher’s death, but other questions pressed on her mind.

“Did Sister Nightingale tell you why we wanted agents here?”

“We lie on the main road between Denerim and Val Royeaux. Couriers stop here all the time. For what they’re paid, some have surprisingly loose tongues.”

Ixchel chewed her lip. “I know it’s dangerous out there for you all.”

“It is what we sign up for, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

“Right. And I know I refuse help often enough myself to sound like a hypocrite. But, I would like you and all our people to know this: if there are any matters regarding our agents that Sister Nightingale seems unlikely to act upon… I will always do my best to make sure our people are taken care of. Sometimes artisans forget they can sometimes use a mallet with their chisel.”

Charter laughed. “I believe I understand.”

“Good.” Ixchel stood and yawned. “Whenever we get a new raven in, let me know. I’ll have another series of directives for Skyhold.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

They stared out at the rift for a moment longer. “Is it wrong to think they’re almost beautiful?” Charter asked the dawn rhetorically.

Ixchel sighed. “They’re portals to the Fade. Can’t dreams be beautiful, sometimes?”

-:-:-:-:-

Her dreams that night were not beautiful.

She did not suspect Nightmare’s influence so much as she knew they were simply memories. Perhaps the spirits who helped reenact them thought that she required a refresher on how this mission had transpired last time. Or perhaps it was a reflection of her own worries. But the caves under Crestwood were wet and damp, and then they were red, lit up by faded lyrium lamps left by ancient dwarves in the thaig below. Reavers and darkspawn alike hounded her through the flooded halls, and her feet were slowed by muck composed of rotted corpses and worse things.

These were not warped fears or manipulated subconscious dreamings—no, these were memories, and Ixchel watched herself from without with a critical, if anxious, eye.

This was why she had brought Cole.

Because it wasn’t just the Reavers and the demons who came through the Fade Rifts that swarmed the dead halls of the thaig. There were hundreds of other spirits floating around, wisps of themselves, memories of the dead, who she had ignored once before. She hadn’t known to talk with them, then, or _how_ to. And she had left them there to linger last time, until the world ended.

-:-:-:-:-

“The mayor said darkspawn destroyed these controls ten years ago. Who repaired them?”

“The mayor. His shame had this shape.”

Varric and Solas looked at Cole with equal bemusement, and then they both seemed to come to the same realization about the meaning behind his words.

“Yeah,” Ixchel said darkly.

They had shooed out the lovers and sent them back to the fort, and unlocked the dam control room to find the crank unharmed. Ixchel had been in a foul mood since she woke up around noon—though time meant nothing, when the sky was as dark and stormy as ever—and the slippery approach to the old tavern had not improved her spirits. She was small, and she wore heavy armor, and the wind was high; it made her nervous.

She had snapped at the young couple and nearly kicked down the door to the control room rather than open them with the mayor’s key.

And then they had, of course, found the dam controls intact.

“…Should we maybe apprehend the bastard?” Varric looked at Ixchel warily.

“There’s nowhere for him to run in Ferelden,” she replied, short and sharp. “Fuck him and his regret. Let’s go clean up.”

They faced some rifts on the way to the center of Old Crestwood, and by the time Ixchel led the way into the old town square, she was once again signed, covered in corpse mud, and simultaneously frostbitten. Her hand hurt, and her head hurt. She had not enjoyed running to a Despair demon in front of this particular group of companions—she worried that they could hear the Demon calling to her: _Futile_.

“There you are!”

Ixchel went perfectly still and closed her eyes as Purpose called out to her from the center of the town. She needed to remain calm, and polite, because the spirit did not deserve that. But Ixchel wasn’t particularly good at being yelled at.

“I _ORDER_ you to tell me why nothing here heeds my commands.”

“A lost spirit,” Solas observed. “This should—”

“I got it,” Ixchel sighed. She approached Purpose.

“Speak!”

“We are here to help you return to the Fade,” Ixchel said. “What do you need?”

“I order the rocks to part, but they do not. I bid the sky draw close, and it stays still! I shan’t leave until something obeys me!”

“Are there such things as Bossy Demons?” Varric muttered.

“Silence! I am no demon! A dolt who would suck this world dry? What for? I am called to higher things.”

“Spirits of Purpose must be delicate,” Ixchel said wryly, “or perhaps very tough. The danger of becoming Desire or Pride must be great.”

“I will not be denied!” Purpose snapped.

Solas stepped closer. “This realm follows different rules from the Fade’s. Will alone cannot overcome what you see.”

“Then what’s the point of it?!”

“A solid form is both shackle and strength. It affects more than you imagine.”

Purpose rolled its shoulders. Before it could start shrieking, Cole peeked out from behind Ixchel’s shoulder. “H-hello… My name is—”

“Ugh, _Compassion_. Did I _ask_ your name?”

Ixchel clenched her fists. “I pledge myself to your service,” she said firmly. “What Purpose shall I serve?”

The spirit drew itself up. “Excellent. I have only one command: a creature made of rage had the gall to chase me across the lake. Destroy it in my name and be rewarded!”

“As you say.”

Ixchel sighed and turned away. “Let’s talk to all the ones we can, just in case we can get them done on the way,” she suggested to the others. “There’s a lot of them here.”

“I suggest we look for another elvhen artifact as well,” Solas said. “I can…hear one nearby.”

She nodded, and they set off. They spoke to a spirit of Dedication who embodied the memory of a woman who would not leave her Blighted son behind, several wisps who had just lost their way back through the rift, and of course, they killed several more Terror demons.

When Ixchel found the elvhen artifact Solas had mentioned, she didn’t hesitate to activate it, but she was questioning the wisdom of it when she didn’t really know what purpose they served. For the most part, she was inclined to believe Solas when he’d said the artifacts strengthened the Veil. She could feel it, anyway: she could feel when the Fade pressed close, and she could feel when it was drawn back, pushed away from her skin with a thicker Veil. But surely the devices served some other function, ultimately, in his plans for the world.

“I can still feel the weakness in the Veil, even above ground. Spirits are being called here like moths to a fla—”

Solas was cut off with a sickening crack was the demon crashed through the side of the hut and tackled him onto the stone wall beside Ixchel. She got a glimpse of too many eyes under the writhing mass of seaweed and teeth.

Solas’s magic fizzled against the wet mass, and Ixchel sprang into action—literally. She came crashing down on top of the beast, and her hammer followed. It encountered resistance from the mass of the demon, but she gleaned no insight into its true shape under the weeds.

Cole sank his daggers into the mass and used them as leverage to drag the creature backward off of Solas. With a blast of Solas’s magic, they gave him enough room to roll out from the creature’s grip. He was bleeding from a cut on the back of his head, and there was a bite torn out of his shoulder. Still, it was Ixchel he cast a barrier over as she swung her hammer at the demon again.

The demon drew itself up with unnatural movements, weeds simply shifting and reforming until it was a towering figure above Ixchel. It began to chuckle, and out of its snarl arose a half-formed voice, as though trying on language for the first time.

“ _Mmmortals_ are _mmmountains_ of mistakes.”

It _itself_ was a mountain. It lurched forward, ignoring Varric’s crossbow bolts. It threw Cole off of its back. And it reached its tendrils out toward Ixchel—and past her.

Solas was grabbed tight and dragged against her back, sandwiching her between his chest and the many maws of the demon within the seaweed. But even as she struggled against it, the wet seaweed writhed, dried, tickled—became fur. “No!” Ixchel shrieked against the shadow of the wolf. She let go of her hammer, but her gloves could find no purchase in the shifting mass around her. She elbowed Solas. “Snap out of it, Solas!” she cried, but he was lost to her for the moment.

The six-eyed wolf laughed around her, and she was quickly losing feeling in her extremities. She couldn’t feel her left arm at all, from the elbow down, as though she had already lost it. But she knew. She knew. She knew because of how much it hurt to know the truth. For now she was whole, and more than whole, for she carried the double burden of two lives at once.

“No!” she howled again, and Ixchel raised her head, stretched to her toes, and tried to expand herself in every direction. The Anchor flared, then was swallowed up in the darkness.

“How many lives were bartered for yours?” the wolf whispered in her ear. “How many lives did you squander when you— _ack!”_

“You should never regret Compassion,” she told it, for it was Cole’s daggers who had carved out a hole for her to reach through, to breathe. She kicked against the cage of shadows, and it dragged her back, hooks in her armor, digging deep. But she had seen Solas stumble away, pulled free by Cole’s efforts, and she was relieved.

She still wasn’t sure if she could fight _his_ Regret on her own.

But Regret had her in its clutches, and it shaped itself to her. She was drowning again, pulled under by shapes in the dark, into the well of mixed Regret and Despair.

She stopped struggling. Tears immediately overwhelmed her, and the weight of her regrets crushed her every muscle. She didn’t need to feel her limbs, her body, because she was composed entirely of regret. She couldn’t open her eyes from the flow of her tears, and she wept freely, adrift, in the cold. She did not fight.

But that only seemed to confuse the demon, and she laughed through her tears.

 _If you are my regrets, then you are welcome,_ she told it. _I even thank you. You have made me better, in many ways._

The pain was overwhelming then, and the demon withdrew in response to it. It had wanted her to feel, and she felt, and now it did not know what to do with itself. Through her blurry vision she saw the putrid foam of the Crestwood lake. She pushed herself up on shaking limbs, but she was tangled in weeds and lake grass.

_You inform my actions. I learn from my mistakes._

_You are not Regret._

Ixchel stood and shrugged off the demon. Its hunched mass shrank from mountain to monster to mutt.

_You are but a mirror._

“You have a troubled relationship with mirrors,” it whispered.

She soothed the many-eyed wolf with a hand on its head. “With a face like mine,” she joked. “Come on. You should go home. Your domain will surely grow in the months to come.”

It contemplated her with its many red eyes, then blinked them slowly, one at a time. Six became four became two, and when the last set of eyes closed, the spirit was gone.

Ixchel fell to her knees in the mud, then fell to her back. Her chest heaved with delayed panic, and she knew she was at risk for Terror, or Despair—

“Sunshine?!”

She didn’t realize how far the demon had dragged her in their struggle. Varric was running at full speed down the bank of the lake, and Cole helped Solas limp along behind him in the distance. Ixchel raised a hand to signal to Varric that she was alive, and when he skidded into the mud beside her, she flinched, because mud was splashed into her face.

“I’m alright,” she sighed. “Need a bath.”

“What was that?”

“Regret demon,” she said. “Probably attracted to the mayor, but I’ve got plenty to go around.” She laughed, and with Varric’s help, she sat up to regroup with Solas and Cole. Ixchel gave Solas a savage, if tired, smile. “You’re welcome.”

He shook his head. He was pale from blood loss from the wound in the juncture of his shoulder and neck. “I cannot recommend you take this as a tactic in the future,” he said gravely. “That was a rather weak Regret, long starved at the bottom of this lake.”

She wished, then, that they knew each others’s secret openly. _She_ knew the power of his Regret—the Regret of a god, of centuries upon centuries of regrets—and she had distracted this demon from taking its shape. She wished _he_ knew what it meant to her, to face a Regret demon, given the double life she was leading, given the hundreds who had died in her name and due to her decisions, given the damage a Regret demon had done to her home, her friends…

“I didn’t have to kill it this time,” she said at last. “That’s a pretty big deal for us.”

 _“‘One by one they follow me, laughing, drowning, into the sea,’”_ Cole said. “The rest of the poem is sad.” He paused, then frowned. “I knew that from you, but you knew it from me.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Cole,” she said, and then she sighed. “I want a bath!” she wailed.

Varric chuckled. “Ass-deep in demons, ass-deep in mud, can’t get a break.”

Ixchel gestured at her bag, fallen some ways away. “There are some lyrium potions and some restorative tonics in there, Solas.”

“Never seen a Regret demon before,” Varric said as Solas went to take care of himself. “Eyes like Pride.”

Ixchel wrung out her soaked, muddy hair. “You can be proud of something in the moment, and regret it forever,” she told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The first time around" Ixchel also rescued a wolf cub, this one from around the Redcliffe area, and raised it. ;)


	28. Wyrm Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy this was a tough one to write
> 
> 10/31/20

They killed at least three different Rage demons as they searched for an entrance to the caves. As they passed underneath the Inquisition camp, Ixchel and Varric waved to Scout Harding. The rain still came down steadily on their heads, and the temperature was dropping precipitously the closer they came to the cave entrance, but Varric seemed almost cheerful.

“You know, I’m not the biggest fan of the Storm Coast,” he said, watching her beat down the door to the caves, “but I’m really looking forward to leaving this shitthole behind.”

“Same,” Ixchel grunted.

She was met by the floating, flickering form of a wisp on the other side of the door.

It did not seem to notice her, so she stepped aside and gestured for Cole to approach. He had shown that he did not need to speak aloud to the wisps to understand their needs. This one, like several of the others they had encountered, had simply gotten lost when they accidentally crossed over through the thinned Veil. After a short conversation with Cole, it faded away.

Ixchel smiled at that.

“It’s humming below us,” Cole called over his shoulder. “A window, wanting, wandering, looking back at what’s looking.”

“Cole believes we are headed in the correct direction,” Solas said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“That’s…that’s a long way down,” Varric mumbled, looking down the ladder.

Ixchel swung herself onto the first rung, then pressed her boots to the sides of the ladder and let herself speed all the way down into the dark.

Full-blooded elves had superior visibility in the dark, she knew; she could see it in the way Solas’s eyes reflected any light like mirrors when they traveled in the murk. If they were in a forest, it might be easy to mistake the glowing points as the stare of a beast. She had inherited some of that in her not-quite-human eyes, though not much, and Varric could still see better than her in the dark. So it was with some chagrin that she went in search of a sconce.

The ground was slick and treacherous, and water ran quicky over her ankles as she progressed.

“Look at that,” Varric breathed. “Stormheart?”

“Yeah. Definitely sending some requisitions out here,” she agreed.

_Futile… Futile…_

She tilted her head. “Despair, up ahead,” she said, lowering her voice. She unhooked her hammer from her back and held it in two hands before her, at the ready. Varric sighed beside her. “It doesn’t feel great that I know that so easily,” she agreed. “Don’t need to tell me.”

They continued through the caves. Cole hummed a strange melody that wasn’t quite the song of lyrium, and she wondered if it was some folk son he had heard in a Fade memory or if it was something the living Cole had remembered. They defeated Despair with a few potent immolations and a well-timed swing of her hammer, then plowed through several more corpses to reach a cavern _full_ of bodies.

“A wall of water, washing over. Lungs tight to bursting, and then suddenly soft, sleepy, sliding away.” Cole trailed off. “They lived down here. With the nugs.”

“Sometimes it seems this land is a collection of tragedies, one piled atop another.” Solas leaned on his staff and contemplated the scattered corpses.

“It’s better that the bodies are burned. The spirits don’t think they belong,” Cole said, and Solas seemed to agree. The bodies went up in flames a moment later.

“There’s dwarven ruins down here?” Varric said disbelievingly.

“The dwarves built well. Their runes still sing.” Solas looked around with nothing but idle curiosity. “Oh. I believe we are intruding.”

He nodded down the hall, where a Rage demon ambled by, oblivious. Its path left trails of steam curling in the flooded caves.

Ixchel lead the charge and swiftly defeated it, weakened as it was by the water all around. She coughed a little in the aftermath, ash in her mouth. “Should probably pass this on to Orzammar or something,” she said. She knew there was a tomb hidden by some rubble, but she did not seek it out. Instead, she went in search of the rift.

“I feel a draft,” Solas said. “There must be a way out nearby.”

“You do?” Varric cocked his head at Solas. “How’s the weather up there, Chuckles?"

“Wet,” Solas replied.

Ixchel activated another elvhen artifact that Solas had not had the time to mention, and as it powered up, she heard a loud roar come from the chamber where the rift was located. “Oh. Oh dear.”

“They don’t understand it here,” Cole said urgently. “They want to destroy everything.”

“After you, Sunshine,” Varric offered.

Ixchel spotted the Revenant’s dark mass pass by the entrance. She did not fear them, but she knew it was smart enough to target her more stationary allies. “Keep your distance,” she urged. “Light on your feet. I’ll handle the Revenant if you can keep the wraiths off me.”

“As you say, _lethallan.”_

Ixchel waited for the Revenant to pass by the entrance again, and then she charged—through the archway, through the center of the room, under the rift, and to the other side. As she had hoped, she drew the Revenant away to give her companions some space to work.

She did not fear Revenants, but she did hate them. She hated the way her limbs felt like lead when they pinned her with their burning eyes, and she hated fighting against the pull of their magic as they tried to get her to throw herself on their blade. She knew them well, and she taunted them for it. How could they believe themselves to be great warriors if that was what they resorted to? If she could enrage them enough, she knew they often dropped their tactics and resorted to _simply_ trying to brutally kill her.

At least she distracted the Revenant long enough for the others to take care of the wraiths. She was just starting to feel her fight take its toll on her when Cole appeared on the Revenant’s back, his knives dug deep in to the chinks in the thing’s armor. It was momentarily distracted enough for her to swing her hammer over her head and brought it crashing down on its helm. The empty armor crumpled to the ground, and the Rift pulsed.

The demons who came after that were hardly any trouble and easily distracted as she tugged on the Rift with the Anchor. When at last the waves ceased and she sealed the Rift, she wheezed with relief and leaned heavily on a nearby pillar.

“There should be some good shit around here,” she grunted at Varric.

Solas approached with a healing tonic in hand. “Are you badly injured?”

“Just battered.” She tossed back the potion and coughed at the burn in her throat. “And exhausted. Wouldn’t mind being carried out of here.”

He snorted, but there was a fondness in the way he looked at her while she shook demon ichor off of her hammer.

“It’s quiet now. The nugs like the quiet,” Cole said.

“And most of the spirits have left.” Ixchel sighed. “I call that a job well done, my friends. Let’s go tell the village.”

-:-:-:-:-

With the undead put to rest and most of Corypheus’s forces routed, Ixchel spent the next two days sorting out the needs of the village and sending communiques back and forth with Leliana. She sent for Bull and Blackwall to meet them at the Storm Coast, informed her advisors about Venatori activity in the Western Approach and the proposed blood magic ritual Stroud had spoken of.

 _Your actions alongside the Wardens during the Blight are well known. If you retain the means of reaching the Hero of Ferelden, it might be wise to ensure his safety or seek his input on these matters,_ she wrote, but she also knew that Warden-Commander Mahariel was likely already far to the West. She ruminated on that letter, thinking of Kieran’s joy, and Morrigan’s softness, when the Hero visited them during one of their surveys of the Arbor Wilds…

Harding did some reconnaissance of the wyvern’s lair before she headed to the Storm Coast to establish their first forward camp. Thus armed and informed, Ixchel took her small company out to hunt the beast for Judith, and to open access for the Inquisition academes to research the ruins the Venatori had been interested in.

Having recently taken out a dragon, Ixchel had felt fairly confident in their ability to clear the grove, but the beast proved much faster than the Frostback had been. They chased the wyvern into the tunnels, but with a well-placed ice wall from Solas they stopped its retreat. Ixchel had a difficult time getting close to it, threatened by its whipping tail, so she kept it preoccupied while Solas and Varric shot at it from range.

After Ixchel had harvested the valuable components from the wyvern, Varric and Cole offered to carry it to Judith while Solas and Ixchel looked around at the ruins.

She set her hammer down against a rock and walked over to the water’s edge and stood, hands on her hips, as she took in the dragon painted on the wall by her ancestors. The other paintings she had seen repeated across Ferelden in ruins, but this one was new—as was one of pale elves cowering (perhaps) beneath either a Templar’s shield or maybe the six eyes of pride, or maybe something else entirely.

Ixchel tilted her head as she examined the iconography.

“The Veil is thin here.”

She jumped nearly out of her skin, and Solas laughed softly; he had gotten quite close without her realizing it.

“Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?”

“I suppose I thought that was the wyvern guts,” she said sheepishly. She turned to face him, arms crossed. “No…I can actually almost…almost hear them, on the other side.”

“Indeed. I imagine they are a host—those spirits and wisps you helped guide back to the Fade.” He was smiling gently. Then, he inclined his head toward the painted wall. “You seem absorbed in these depictions. There were similar ones in that ruined tower in the Hinterlands.” She nodded at him, warmed by the glint of good humor in his eye. “You mentioned once your fascination with the frescoes of our People.”

“I know these can’t compare to frescoes,” she said, worried that he might think her silly if she conflated the two. “But anywhere I can learn, I would like to.”

He tilted forward, a slight bow as he acknowledged her words, then rocked back on his heels. “You will also recall our more recent discussion, about how some might reject the things I have…witnessed, on my journeys.”

 _What are you getting at?_ And suddenly her heart was stuttering, clumsy in her chest, because there was no way he was about to tell her—anything of importance. Not the Evanuris? Unless… She looked back at the dark paintings, the flashes of red, the sinister aura of them. Perhaps that was Andruil, and her armor of the Void…?

Was this the moment he would reveal himself to her…?

“Yes, I remember,” Ixchel said faintly. “Whatever you have to tell me, Solas, I will hear it with open ears, open mind, open heart.”

“The vallaslin…”

She went very still, awash with conflicting emotions, for at once she knew what he was about to tell her, and both relieved and concerned at what he was not. He seemed to take her reaction as a judgement, so he spoke more quickly.

“You might think that they are a religious tradition to honor the Elvhen gods. And they are, in a way. They were slave markings in the time of ancient Arlathan. A noble would mark his slaves to honor the god he worshipped. They were chains.”

The tension left her immediately. She turned and looked up at him full in the face. His expression was guarded, but when he caught her eye he seemed to relax a little as well. She was not mad, and she was not particularly grief-stricken. It seemed he had expected one of two such reactions from her.

Ixchel tapped her fingers on her biceps, where her arms were crossed, and she sighed.

“I feel sorry, then, for what the People have forgotten. Even eight-hundred years ago, elves of Halamshiral considered the vallaslin to be an honored tradition...” She sighed and fingered her cheek, where one curve of her blood writing was partially marred by a dragonling scar. “But then again, I might be proud to be part of a People who could reclaim something with such ugly history and make it a beautiful work of art.” She paused. “No, I _am_ proud. They mark me as one of them.”

“I know,” he replied. “For everything I have said about the Dalish, I admire that unbending spirit. I… If I hurt you with this knowledge…”

“You didn’t,” she reassured him.

He still did not seem to believe her, so she unfolded her arms and reached for him, put a hand on his elbow.

“You know I like to learn,” she began earnestly. “But I’m not seeking out knowledge in order to bring the world _back_ to the days of Elvhenan. There is glory to be remembered, respect to be carried, things to restore—certainly. But as you’ve revealed to me…there are lessons to be learned as well.” She smoothed out a crease in the sleeve of his sweater. “I hope no one looks back at _this_ time we live in and wishes to restore it in full, but I don’t doubt there would be some who forget, or forgive, or overlook the oppression of the Circles and the Templars, the razing of alienages…”

Solas was frowning now, and she knew again she was speaking both to the hedge mage and to the Dread Wolf.

“We must learn, and look forward, and do our best to make the future…brighter.”

“What if it isn’t?” he asked.

For the first time— _the very first time_ —Ixchel heard an undertone of desperate uncertainty in his voice. She looked up at Solas with wide-eyes and tried to reconcile the man before her with the man who stepped into an eluvian, saying, _‘I will treasure the chance to be wrong once again,’_ as though he knew he never would be.

“What if you wake up to find that the future you shaped is worse than what was?”

And though his face was not particularly open to her now, she had _heard_ the doubt in his voice, and he had _asked_ , and it _mattered_.

“There are easier paths than hope,” she reminded him. “But it is what I would choose. I would take a breath, and try to find something that would give me hope: people, possibilities, smaller victories, to inspire myself and others to try again to make the next future better.” She tightened her grip on his elbow, for she had seen something click into place behind his mask and she was afraid of it. “There are always people who will try, and if we don’t keep trying, we’ll never get it right. You just need the _humility_ to not make the same mistake twice.”

Ixchel stared up at him and tried to gauge where his conclusion had been drawn, what lesson he had been trying to impart and which lesson he had learned, but she could not tell.

She could only hope.

“But…about the vallaslin.” She sighed. “I have no doubt there would be many Dalish who reject a truth like that. What else can they claim to own, to be proud of? Tiny aravels that do not fly? Halla so delicate they cannot carry us into battle? The _Dirthaveren?_ All they have are stories, Solas, to draw pride from. And they are mortal, and mortals have hearts, and when a heart is threatened…we lash out.”

Solas pulled away from her and clasped his hands behind his back. He turned in a slow circle and stared up at the magnificent harts who watched over the wyvern’s grove.

“Yet _you_ have found pride in discovering truths, even this, though it might not be one you liked.”

“And there would be others,” she said firmly. “There are others. There _will_ be others. That is where the trying matters.” She gave his back a sad smile. “If you had not told me, would you believe that?”

 _“Lethallan,_ ” he said, very softly, “do you think your status as an outsider is what allows you to see things with such clarity?”

“No.”

Her response was perhaps too quick, because his gaze dropped to the ground, but she took a moment to consider it. “Yes and no,” she ammended. “I do everything I can to prove, to earn, my elf blood. More than _almost_ anything, I want to belong… You know, among the shems, they say converts are the most faithful. Perhaps that is true of my half-heritage as well, my elf blood that I claim for my own.”

“That is why you are a fervent scholar of your ancestors.”

She hummed in assent. “But…what allows me to accept hard truths without lashing out… It’s my illness, the shadow in my mind, that has made me practice stepping outside of myself. Whatever I may feel in the moment, my survival requires me to take a breath, assess the situation, and try and quantify it with regard to my moral code.” She twisted her fingers, suddenly nervous, suddenly shy, but the strength of her conviction held her course. “That is humility, and patience, and…and…resilience. No virtue among them is inherent, but all can be learned. And even then, I falter. But I try to realize it, and make up for it, and find the people who will support me on that journey.”

In the soft silence, broken only by the gentle sound of water and reeds, Ixchel felt very naïve. “I’m sorry, Solas. I am young and haven’t seen the things you have. I shouldn’t be lecturing you.”

“No, no.” He faced her again, appearing more tired and sad than she had seen him in a long time. “You have not been what I expected, lethallan. You have…impressed me. And though you speak of humility, I urge you not to pass your agency over to someone else—even me. There are lessons I can learn from you, as well, for you possess a wisdom I admire.”

Ixchel nearly covered her face to hide her blush, and only stopped her hand halfway. She fidgeted with a buckle on her armor instead, but his eyes were trained keenly on her face and she knew there was no hiding it. “Ah. Uhm. Thank you. And… Solas.” She forced herself, flushed red as she was, to smile at him measure for measure. “Thank you for trusting me.”

He returned her smile, in his own, thin way.

Later, as Solas unrolled a bedroll and prepared to visit the memories of the grove in the Fade, a thought occurred to her. “Solas… Does wearing this give Dirthamen any power over me? Whatever he was—wherever they are…?”

“You have seen the power required to breach the Fade,” he said. “If your legends are true, then one might surmise the Elvhen gods do not have that power. But, to answer your specific question… I do not know.”

She chewed her lip as she cleaned her hammer. She had gotten most of the blood off, but wyvern blood was acidic and it had already marred the once mirror-polished surface. “No one should be a slave to another's will,” she murmured down at the distorted reflection.

“On that, one would hope there would be no question.” He sighed and settled down, his hands folded peacefully on his stomach. “For now, there is nothing to fear from the gods, thanks to your Dread Wolf.”

“Cackling and hugging himself deep in the Fade?” She laughed. “That one is strangest of all.”

“Yet remarkably consistent," he muttered.


	29. The Storm Coast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/1/20

Ixchel left her wolf pup in Charter’s capable arms—one last tickle of its bony ribs before she left, under strict orders to have Varric take the pup back to Skyhold on the next caravan. Then, Ixchel, Solas, and Cole headed out for the Storm Coast. Varric’s distaste for the Waking Sea was well known, and he had been receiving an increasing number of threatening letters from his publisher, so he volunteered to take the pup back and hand it off to their Avvar ally thereafter.

It was not a long journey to the coast, but it was a slow and rocky one. Their mounts chose every step with care, and Ixchel was content to let them take their time. Bull and Blackwall likely would not have beaten them to the forward camp yet, so she was not in a rush. Solas was quiet and contemplative, and Cole rode in the saddle behind him, mostly talking to the horses but sometimes murmuring comments to Solas. Ixchel was mostly excluded from their conversations, but she did not mind. She knew the two found comfort in one another.

So Ixchel rode with her waxed cloak up over her head against the rain and let the horses lead.

“Ah, Inquisitor.” Harding greeted when they came around the last bend. “I would have sent word sooner, but our efforts have been…delayed.”

Ixchel dismounted and handed off her horse to another soldier, murmuring thanks to him. “Venatori? Templars?”

“There’s a group of bandits operating in the area,” Harding said. “They know the terrain, and our small party has had trouble going up against them. Some of our soldiers went to speak with their leader. Haven’t heard back, though.”

Ixchel put a steady hand on her shoulder. “I’ll do what I can to find our people.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor. That’s a relief. The soldiers didn’t have an exact location for the bandits, but they were starting their search farther down the beach. With all this fuss, we haven’t been able to look into the Warden business Ser Blackwall asked us about.”

“Blackwall and Bull should be arriving soon enough. Have them wait for us here. I’m just going to do some snooping about of my own, then I’ll be back.”

Harding bowed her head. “Well, good luck. And enjoy the sea air. I hear it’s good for the soul.”

Ixchel fetched her jeweler’s tools from her bags and pocketed them, knowing she would need to fashion a Mercy’s Crest to deal with the Blades of Hessarion. Then, she turned to Solas and Cole.

“Are you up for some reconnaissance?” Ixchel asked. Solas nodded, eyes shadowed beneath his cloak. She led the way out of the camp, taking the route through the hills. “I’m expecting Venatori along the beach and mercs in the hills. Possibly some darkspawn, definitely some giant spiders, if we go too close to the cliffs,” she said. “Mercs probably have mabari, and there are bears out here.”

Solas sighed. “Of course there are bears."

“So much water. Where does it go?” Cole asked.

They let him ponder.

Her trio traveled largely without incident, and she was able to locate the missing scouts—they were alive, but only barely, having been left for dead by the mercenary company. Ixchel gave them all of the healing potions she had brought, and Solas provided what magical help he could, but Cole’s daggers were required for one of them in the end anyway.

“Stay here, act dead,” Ixchel told the remaining two scouts.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” one rasped.

Ixchel pocketed the instructions for the Mercy’s Crest and the challenge from the company’s leader, then retraced her steps back to camp to alert Harding.

Lace moved as though she were about to embrace Ixchel upon learning of the soldiers' survival, but restrained herself at the last moment. Ixchel did not think it was rain that shone in Harding’s eyes. “Thank you, Inquisitor—are you off again?”

“Yeah. Need to fill out this map of yours.”

Her small troupe set out again, tracking Corypheus’s forces and marking the location of rifts, quarries, potential camp locations, and sources of good timber.

The weather lent itself to introspection, and Ixchel found herself struck with melancholy. Even the sight of the mighty dragon picking up a Great Bear and flying off with it didn’t turn her head much. Solas pointed out more shard-seeking skulls, and they spent the afternoon searching them out in near-silence.

They ate a small meal of seeded rations in the shelter of a rocky outcropping most of the up the westward coast. Ixchel’s fingers and face were numb with cold, and that only made the already unpleasant rations almost unbearably tasteless and mealy. She made a face as she chewed, and Solas chuckled, looking away.

In the grey afternoon, she thought of eluvians and the fog of the Crossroads Morrigan had shown her with the help of the Well of Sorrows. And she thought of the part of the Crossroads Solas had led her through, in pursuit of the Qunari at the Exalted Council. It had been so much more _colorful_ there, like glass from Serault, but Varric had seen only gray… They had spent too much time standing there, staring at the swirling sky, trying to understand, and now she did. There was old blood in her, unsundered, soaked in the Fade…

“I wonder what emotion was like, in Elvhenan,” she mused. “Spirits embody such disparate, strong qualities. What must people have been like, in a society built alongside them?”

She heard Solas’s breath as he smiled, though his hood obscured it. “The way the Dalish speak of their gods, one might imagine emotion ran high among the elves, if they were anything like those they worshiped.”

“I wouldn’t personally take such parables as historical accounts,” she said, and there was that sound again—the hint of a laugh. She smiled a bit, then asked, almost shyly, “Do you have any tales of them in action, _lethallin?”_

He fingered a crumb that had landed on his breeches, such a mundane gesture, but it only fed the part of her that was afraid and in awe of his true power.

“The Fade still trembles with memories of memories of memories of them.”

He began to gesture, and she studied his hands, the long, lily-white fluttering of them as he spoke.

“Sometimes I wonder if fear is the one trait that unites all living things. It certainly has been present in the world since times even forgotten by the gods themselves. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. As societies grow, they insist upon chains of command, protectors, leaders. In times of war, generals. In times of peace, respected elders, or kings. Mortal men who were not mages have been remembered as living gods, as ways to describe their otherwise impossible feats. Andraste was named the Bride of the Maker for her deeds… Imagine how terrifyingly unique one must have been, in an empire of mages with power far beyond any reckoning today, that they might name you a god.”

She had imagined it, indeed. _Asha’bellanar_ was a mortal witch who held a fragment of a wisp of a memory of Mythal, and she was one of the most powerful and enigmatic beings on the face of Thedas. And Solas… She had tasted divinity on his lips. She had watched him turn a courtyard of Qunari into solid granite. But she knew he bled, and his heart beat, and she had known who held it.

She felt like she had been walking a thin line, drawn so close by the desire for company—company who _understood_ , who could be at once awe-struck and critical of these wonders of the past, the way she knew Solas could be. In another world, they could have traveled together, tutor and pupil, and she would have been happy… But she could not tell Solas. She could not.

Ixchel dragged her fingers across the wet stone beneath her. She could not stop herself from sharing: “I found a sealed place, so ancient it stole my breath to feed the whispers inside. I heard the voice of Geldauran, the Forgotten One: _‘There are no gods. There is only the subject and the object, the actor and the acted upon. Those with will to earn dominance over others gain title not by nature but by deed. I refuse those who would exert will upon me…’”_

She trailed off. “I was so very young then, but still I understood.” Ixchel shook herself, straightened her legs and tried not to meet Solas’s gaze. “But now I wonder: the things we forgot…are they because the people in power want us to forget, or because the people who were forgotten were too assured of their importance that they didn’t care?”

“Old pain,” Cole said, and both Ixchel and Solas flinched in surprise. He had been so silent during the day’s travels that both had fallen into the unconscious state of forgetting him. “Shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change.”

Solas did not turn to look at either of them. Ixchel reluctantly turned to Cole, opened her mouth to stop him, but was caught off guard by his stare. They locked eyes, and her voice died in her throat.

“They’re all singing. Coffers, coffins, corpses that aren’t dead. A song crying out in the dark. _We cannot get out._ Drums. Drums in the deep.”

“Well, shit.” The curse left her before she could quell it, her visceral distaste for the Deep Roads. _Waves of darkspawn, emissaries and their putrid laughing breaths, the Sha-Brytol’s white eyes and their blue lyrium glares, and—_

“You must return soon.”

At this, Solas did turn to her. “You are as pale as the grave,” he noted.

“There’s…” She worked a piece of tack around her mouth uneasily. “I…I had a bad experience, falling into the Deep Roads.”

Cole reached for her. “You’re brighter now, and the dark is not _darker.”_

“Isn’t it?”

The two young people stared at one another, both helpless. Cole’s eyes searched hers, brow furrowed as though what he saw brought him pain. “Floating, falling, cold—so cold there is no difference between skin and air—forget your shape and forget to breathe—”

 _“Cole,”_ Solas said firmly.

The spirit vanished, his hat pulled down over his ears.

Ixchel’s chest hurt with every breath as if she were drowning in those floodwaters again. She pulled her legs back up to her chest and buried her face in her knees to avoid Solas’s scrutiny. “I told him to stay out,” she said weakly. “It’s too much for him.”

Solas exhaled, long and slow. “I have been trying to help him,” he said. “You have a different way of seeing pain than most, I believe… He is distressed when the methods he uses on others fail on you.”

She kept her face hidden and focused on trying to breathe.

Her companion continued, almost meditatively. “You are nothing if not direct. Objective, removed, from your own feelings, as you said, so that you can examine them head-on. Many separate themselves from their pain so that they _can_ forget, and what they forget festers—and that is what Cole does best. He would remind us of what we have forgotten, so that we may learn from the feeling.”

Solas’s clothes shifted and whispered as he moved, and when she glanced up from under her damp lashes she found him sitting in a position that mirrored her own, though he had folded his arms over his knees to cushion his chin as he watched her. “You have been restless in your sleep, _lethallan_. Has the Nightmare found you of late?”

“Not the one serving Corypheus,” she mumbled. “This isn't… I just…really don’t like being underground.”

But it was more than that. It was utter darkness, loss of sensation, formlessness. Feeling lost in tunnels that would come crumbling down on her, certain no one would find her in the rushing waters, and no one would know to look. Powerless and meaningless and unmemorable in the end, another forgotten casualty on the way to the end of the world.

The silence stretched between them, and she almost wanted to cover her ears against it. She forced herself to break it.

“Could you…tell me about something you’ve found on your travels?” she asked softly.

He smiled and thought a moment. “I once found an ancient dwarven thaig no longer sheltered by the stone... An earthquake had exposed it all to daylight. A thousand dwarven corpses lay, the victims of a darkspawn horde, their last stand marked by one great ring of armor. In the middle, one small body, clutching tightly to a small stuffed toy. Vain hope in what must have seemed an endless dark. But their efforts were preserved, and I remembered.”

-:-:-:-:-

With the help of a handful of soldiers, Ixchel ventured back to retrieve their wounded people and bring them back to safety. As they all sat around weak fires that night, she fashioned a Mercy’s Crest and listened to the gossip among the rank and file. She was so pleased that they seemed to speak freely around her, joked with her. It had been an odd thing, back then, to be so much younger than them but held so separately. She hoped that it was because she had gone to such efforts to prove she cared about them, this time.

She did not see Cole, and before she retired for the evening she asked Solas if he had noticed his whereabouts.

“I did speak to him, briefly,” her hedge mage said. “I believe that the amount of red lyrium in the area is making it difficult for him to focus, to shut out the feelings of those around him. He may try to isolate himself, for a time, until he is needed.”

“Oh.”

Ixchel deflated. “I hope he knows I’m not mad at him.”

Solas touched her shoulder ever so lightly. “He knows.”

_“On nydha, Solas.”_

_“On nydha, Ixchel.”_

As she bedded down and listened to the rain fall on the tent, all she could hear was the rhythm of the Titan’s call, and she wondered how Valta had fared, thereafter—different, but still a Shaper.

Ixchel wondered if Valta could wait. Or if her experience in the Deep Roads would be better with Solas, or if she should wait to go after he had left, as she did last time.

No. She couldn’t assume he’d leave. She had to have hope…

Kieran had mentioned Titans, the sundered giants, but of course he had.

His grandmother was and was not Mythal, and had she not cast down a pillar of the earth…?

Ixchel, blessedly, dreamt of none of those things. Instead, she dreamed of the watchful stone wolves of the Emerald Graves, and she nestled between one’s paws and listened to the rain. No Nightmare broke into her dreaming realm, and no living wolves, Rebellious or Dreadful, stalked her as she rested.

-:-:-:-:-

The Iron Bull and Blackwall arrived the next afternoon. Blackwall seemed a little road worn, but Bull was rearing to go. “So, Sunshine, let’s hear about this merc group.”

“Blades of Hessarian. I’m giong to challenge the leader and take their place,” she said, showing him the Mercy’s Crest. Solas raised an eyebrow as he readjusted the contents of his backpack, while Blackwall chuckled almost disbelievingly. “What? I am.” She grinned. “Isn’t it fitting, taking control of a radical group of Andrastians as the Herald of Andraste?” She only spoke this irreverently because they were a good distance from camp. “Is this how all merc groups are, Bull?”

“Well, it _is_ easy to make a name for yourself when you’re bigger than most,” he admitted. “I spent a year or two in a group, Fisher’s Bleeders. But the captain was crap. The best of the Fishers agreed with me, so we left.”

“Left?” Solas repeated. “That is remarkably civil.”

“Oh, he came at me. I snapped his sword in half, and we talked things out over drinks.”

Ixchel laughed. “If our experience could go as well as that, I’d open a _barrel_ for us.” But, of course, she knew that was unlikely to be true.

The Blades on watch drew their swords when they saw Bull coming down the hill behind her, and Blackwall armed to the teeth, but Ixchel held up the Mercy’s Crest and let it catch the light. The Blades looked at each other warily. “Someone’s come with a challenge?” one asked the other.

“Sure,” Ixchel demurred. “I’m mostly here to talk.”

“Good luck with that,” said the other merc with a chuckle. He pushed open the gate and let them pass through unaccosted.

The entire camp fell silent, and all eyes fell upon them. Ixchel led the way, but she was aware that the attention passed first to the Iron Bull, towering over her with a giant axe, then Blackwall in his shining obsidian armor and his Inquisition shield. But those two stopped at the edge of the boardwalk, and Ixchel was the one who strode forward to face the captain of the Blades.

It was a difficult feat, standing tall and proud when one was so short. Usually such a feat required one to lock one’s knees and brace themselves imposingly. But Ixchel knew the likelihood of a fight, and she needed to remain light on her feet. It was also a little difficult to seem particularly fearsome when one was as wet as a drowned cat, but she tried, jaw set and chin held proudly.

“So _you_ would challenge the Blades of Hessarian?” His laughter was like a snarl as he loomed before their makeshift altar.

“I, Inquisitor Lavellan, would ask why the Blades have accosted and murdered my people as they explored the coast,” she said evenly. “If you have a sponsor who made such demands, I would know who they are. Or, if you acted out of pure spite, yes, I will stop you no matter the cost.”

There was an uneasy shifting in the crowd behind her, but she kept her eyes trained on the brute in front of her. He seemed thrown off by her demeanor for a moment—and then decided he was insulted by it.

“You want justice? Claim it.”

His hand had hardly moved for his sword before Solas’s barrier sprang up around her. She danced away from a wild upward sweep of the mercenary’s sword, and she unhooked her hammer as she went. The fight was on.

“Get the mabari!” she shouted, head down as she rammed her shoulder into the leader’s stomach and threw him back.

Bull moved with surprising agility, grabbing mabari in each hand and throwing them away from her, all without interfering with her battle. When at last the mercenary captain fell, ribs crushed flat by her hammer, Ixchel rose up and rounded on the rest of the group.

“It is done.” Her breath came sharp and fast through her nose.

The Blades bowed and knelt and saluted her. “Your Worship! The Blades of Hessarion are at your service.”

The Iron Bull roared with pleasure behind her. “You’ll need to come up with a name, Inquisitor,” he teased. _“‘Your Worship’_ isn’t very fear-inducing.”

“I’ll have to think about it,” she said evasively. “Come, let’s get to know our people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On nydha - good night


	30. Buon Fresco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has killed me. i am dead.
> 
> it is very late, sorry for the typos!
> 
> 11/2/20

They spent the rest of the morning getting acquainted with the mercenary group. Ixchel and Bull ran them through the ways to identify Venatori and asked them to kill any they saw in the woods and prevent any others they could from setting foot on the beach. Then, she asked for their biggest bruisers to accompany her to route Templars out of the ancient dwarven port to the west.

Ixchel led them past the small Inquisition camps that were being set up along the beach at the points she had marked and introduced them to her soldiers and scouts. When they finally reached the dwarven door, she turned to face her company. “Don’t touch the red stuff,” she reminded them. “And run if you feel like it, no hard feelings.”

She saluted them, and they returned it. Then, she nodded at Bull.

He bared his teeth and traded weapons with her: a greataxe for her hammer. Then, he attacked the door.

Ixchel knew this wasn’t particularly subtle, but the door was locked, and she wasn’t going to wait for the one day perhaps weeks or months from now when her agents would find a way inside.

Solas was visibly disturbed by the amount of red lyrium they found as they entered Daerwin’s Mouth proper. Bull led the bruisers to break a shield wall, while Solas set a line of fire mines down behind the Red Templars to prevent their escape. Once the shields had been bashed aside, Ixchel, Cole, and Blackwall charged in to engage the shrieks and knights.

Ixchel tried not to look like she knew where she was going, and it helped that she had sort-of forgotten. They reached the main mining hall and swept it clear of Red Templars with minimal injuries, and Ixchel had Solas and Bull destroy as much of the lyrium as possible. Ixchel stood with Solas while he worked, keeping an eye out for any sign of reinforcements.

“It’s weird there are no Behemoths,” she muttered.

“Perhaps those we have seen are on their way to becoming them,” Solas said as another mountain of red lyrium crumbled beneath his magic.

“Or maybe the Elder One has them gathering somewhere else.” She tapped her foot nervously. “Varric’ll be pleased we’ve destroyed so much of this shit, at least.”

“Has the…song…been bothering you?” he asked. The word ‘song’ left his mouth almost reluctantly, as though the very thought of it displeased him.

Ixchel shrugged. “It bothers me that I can hear it _at all._ But not particularly, no.”

Cole crept up beside them. “They didn’t get to say goodbye,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“The Templars from Therinfal. One wanted to make the world safe for his daughter. Then he turned red inside. She doesn’t know.”

Ixchel’s face pinched, and she looked at Solas. “If only they didn’t all _crumble_ when they died, we could get word of their passing to their families.”

He tilted his head a little. “Would it be unkind, to tell a young daughter her father was used in such a way?”

She chewed her lip. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and she turned to lead the mercenaries out of storage and into the docks proper.

There were only two knights there, loading boxes of lyrium into boats—or so she thought. As she was thrown back by a shield bash, something moved in her peripheral vision, and she screamed: “SPELLBINDERS!”

The hooded Ventori unleashed a series of fire mines around her group, penning them in together—sitting targets for their immolation magic and waves of potent frost. Solas hurried to dispel at least enough for Ixchel to cut a path out of the trap, and she led the way, but her hair was on fire and she could barely see.

She knew she should go and dunk herself in the ocean, but instead, she threw herself on top of a Venatori mage, grabbed him by the neck, and smashed their foreheads together.

Just as the battle ended, Bull pulled her off the ground by the scruff of the neck and jogged over to the dock, where he unceremoniously dropped her into the water.

Ixchel sank like a stone in her heavy armor, slipping and sliding down the smooth, algae-covered stone. She pushed herself up as hard as she could and broke the surface again, but she was swept under by another wave. There was icy water in her ears and her mouth, and for a split second, as a shadow fell over her, she was back in the Deep Roads.

A hand plunged into the water and grabbed her arm. She grabbed it back.

Bull and Blackwall hauled her out onto the stony shore with a loud shriek of wet metal-on-rock. She rolled onto her side, retching and gasping as she tried to get the sea out of her lungs. She smelled like burnt hair, and the crash of the waves still sounded like gatlok, but she wasn’t _there, she wasn’t there, she wasn’t there._

“Inquisitor, are you injured?”

She shook her head and gasped pathetically. She did her best to sit up, and when she did, she gave her assembled company a self-deprecating grin. “What a bad hair day,” she said hoarsely.

Solas stood off to the side, concern written all across his face, but the mercs roared with laughter. She counted them—they were mostly unscathed, though several were badly injured by the looks of it. Ixchel tried to focus on the laughter and not the roar of the ocean, and it helped her ignore her still-twisting stomach just a little.

“You know, there’s an Avvar chief I heard about who got her hair set on fire in a battle. Thane Sun-Hair.”

“Sounds a lot prettier than what _I’m_ looking at,” Bull said, and he helped pull her to her feet. “And that’s too pretty for a merc name, sorry.”

“Damn it,” she said. Blackwall laughed merrily beside her. “Well, everyone, I believe we’ve broken the Templars’ hold here. Let’s keep it that way, eh?”

-:-:-:-:-

Over the next several days, Ixchel, Bull, and Blackwall searched up and down the coast for clues to the Wardens’ movements and plans. Once she’d told Blackwall about the blood magic and the nation-wide Calling, he’d stammered something about, oh yes, of course he’d heard it, but the Inquisition seemed more important for the time being than going to die in the Deep Roads. _Temporarily_ , of course. She had given him a tense smile and a nod and not pressed it further, and though playing along with his mask rubbed her the wrong way, she still admired and appreciated his dedication to seeking out these traces of the Wardens.

All the while, Bull tried to figure out Ixchel’s merc name. At first, he’d run through the names of all the species of dragon he could pull off the top of his head. He’d briefly entertained the idea of some Qunari words, but Blackwall pointed out that in order to strike fear and awe in people, they needed to understand it first.

“Blackwall. Iron Bull,” Bull muttered tensely, as though chewing the words on his molars. “Hey.” He grunted. “Sunshine. Pick a color.”

“Maroon.”

“Fuck that. A metal?”

“Stormheart.”

“Stormheart Lavellan’s too long. _Fuck!”_

“Maybe I’m just not cut out to be the leader of a merc troop,” she suggested. “I’ll give you the Blades!”

He snorted and shook his head fiercely. “They pale in comparison to the Chargers. You can keep ‘em.”

“Maybe it’s the kind of thing that you have to earn,” Blackwall said. “You’ll be fighting a wolf and put a sword through it’s jaw and then you’re Ironfang or something.”

Bull cocked an eyebrow at Blackwall and considered him. “Ironfang. Not bad. Ever think of wearing a wolf pelt? Maybe a mask?”

“This isn’t Orlais,” she said sharply, and bowed out of the conversation.

Once, as they were scouring a small elevated area, Ixchel noticed a familiar marking on a rock face nearby—partially covered over with moss, but deep enough to be visible if one knew where to look. It was an old Chasind sign she had learned from Morrigan, an indication for those who might pass through that this was a safe place to camp.

And it was Hal’s marking.

As soon as she recognized it, she began looking for other signs, and found them. There was a cache of Warden treaties wrapped in a protective oilskin and buried under a shallow layer of gravel; there was a ring with a seal on it: a shield, marked by the griffon of the Wardens and the tree that was part of the vallaslin of Falon’Din.

“The Hero of Ferelden was here!” she said excitedly.

“Now that’s a man with some wicked names,” Blackwall said. “They even call him ‘the Windy Marcher,’ after that pale ship that appears on the mists around here.”

Ixchel grinned to herself and put the ring on her finger. She’d give it to Morrigan when she saw her next. Well. Once they were friends again. Her smile faded.

“He was one of yours, right, Sunshine?”

“Yeah. I always looked up to him, ‘cause he was adopted into a Dalish clan like I was and made them proud.”

She tucked her cold hands under her armpits and peered out at the fog rolling in across the water. Somewhere across there was Kirkwall, and Wycome, and Starkhaven, and Clan Lavellan roaming in-between. Someday soon, they would call for her, and she would make sure to help this time—even if she had to cross the sea herself.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel took Solas and Cole to go activate the elvhen artifact, and she was suddenly so extremely grateful for the Blades of Hessarion, because when they heard a bear bearing down on them the mercenaries swarmed over to help her out.

When at last Ixchel stood in front of the strange basalt caves where she knew the artifact was hidden, she hugged herself, hung her head, and said, “Cole, this might be hard for you.”

He pulled his hat down over his ears. “I’m not listening,” he said proudly.

Solas put a comforting hand on each of their shoulders. “I am well-acquainted with giant spiders, my friends. Perhaps I can clear the way ahead, so you do not have to linger here long.”

“There’s a rift in there, _lethallin_ ,” Ixchel told him.

“Then I will deal with the spiders and come fetch you.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Or, I will bring the demons out here.”

She watched him disappear into the dark, and Cole immediately rounded on her. He placed his hands on her shoulder and bumped his forehead against hers. “It’s okay,” he said. “The songs are old there, sleeping sadness already forgotten. I can’t help that hurt. I can’t help yours. Not yet. I understand.”

Tears pricked at Ixchel’s eyes, but Cole continued, in a lower voice.

“When I’m near a Rift, Solas tells me to focus on what is here, in this world. ‘Feel the ground, the breath in your lungs, fabric rustling against your skin.’” Cole took a deep breath, as an example. “Being _pulled_ through means you don’t have enough you. You become what batters you, bruises your being.”

Ixchel raised a hand to his cheek and breathed. “Thank you, Cole.”

He beamed at her, and they held hands as they stood and waited for Solas to return. Cole fidgeted a lot, for a spirit, playing with her fingers, fiddling with the metal brackets at the end of the straps on her armor.

Suddenly, he said, “You and Solas sound the same, but I won’t say, don’t worry.”

And then Solas stepped out of the cave, and Ixchel did not have time to reply, because he _had_ brought a Rage demon crawling behind him.

-:-:-:-:-

At last, they returned to Skyhold.

It had already almost doubled in its occupancy as more workers poured in to help with the various architectural projects and inspired recruits came to pad the numbers in the army. The Herald’s Rest had been named and opened, and Cabot had arrived to tend to the bar. The Chargers and Varric had already made it their home, and as soon as Ixchel’s party was welcomed back through the gates, Bull almost skipped off in that direction to reunite with his people.

Harding had travelled back with Ixchel, bringing a cart with her to resupply, and she headed over to the newly-opened stable area with a parting wave to her Inquisitor. Blackwall took Ixchel’s horse in the same direction, and Cole vanished and reappeared near the surgeon’s tents.

“Never tires of helping,” Ixchel observed warmly.

“Indeed.” Solas hopped a little, readjusting his heavy bags on his back. “I am told I have been given the rotunda. Would you perchance be headed in that direction?”

Ixchel’s smile was stiff. She couldn’t help it. She had spent a great deal of time wondering if she were ready to enter the rotunda. It had been years since she had seen its walls adorned with frescoes, so she didn't think it would hurt very much to see it bare again. It was going to be fresh, and she felt, for the first time in a long while... fresh.

“Unless I get swarmed by my dear advisers along the way,” she said, and she followed Solas up the stairs to the great hall. It was not nearly as populated as it one day would be, with people of all nationalities and backgrounds coming to witness and aide the Inquisition. The simple high-backed chair of the Inquisitor had been placed under the stained glass at the far end, but not even the tables had been brought in. No drapery was hung from the rafters, and the walls were still bare of anything except for one large Inquisition banner.

There was much work to be done.

When Ixchel entered the rotunda after Solas, she stopped and took it all in. Bare walls, no scaffolding. A chaise longue long enough for an elf, and a single side table with a vase on it—empty of flowers. Solas’s desk was pushed up against a wall awkwardly, likewise bare of personality.

She had been worried about Regret. She had been worried about Despair.

But Ixchel surprised herself, because as she looked around at the high walls, she felt a strangely light. She wondered if his frescoes would be different. She knew she would be braver, less shy, about spending time with him here, watching him paint.

And as Solas set down his belongings on the floor by the chaise, she recognized that light feeling as a glimmering thread of hope.

He beckoned her over, and when she arrived at his side, he lay a bundle of clattering tools on the cushion. Paint brushes, plaster knives, mortars and pestles, charcoal sticks, tools for applying and burnishing gold leaf—it was all there. “When Lady Montilyet assigned me this space, I had a thought,” he said. “I would like to record these historic times in the style of our People. If that pleases—”

Solas cut himself off, because Ixchel had closed the space between them and tugged him into a hug. She buried her face in his chest, arms tight around his ribs where she could reach, and her heart swelled to bursting when he laughed under her ear. It was a beautiful sound, as light as she felt in that moment. Of course, she had taken it as a given that the rotunda would once again be filled with his artwork; he had not asked for permission, before, and instead he had simply acted, and in the end she had understood that it was a gift to her, but it had also been something important to him.

But she had not expected this. Now he lay it out for her, offered it, seemed so _pleased_ that he had brought her such joy.

Solas wrapped his arms around her in return, and he rested his cheek on her hair. He was still chuckling. “I take it that I have your permission then?”

“Only if I get to watch you work sometimes,” she said, still into his chest. She did not even mind the wolf jawbone pressing into her cheek.

“You are _vibrating_ , _lethallan_ ,” he said, giving her a squeeze.

He was right. This had given her far too much energy to be contained. She pulled away and began pacing the circumference of the room. “Teach me all the iconography! How you mix the paint! What minerals must I requisition for you? Gold? You’ll have it.”

Ixchel turned back to him, beaming. She pointed at herself. “ _Ajuelan_ ,” and then she pointed at him, “ _Raj’aju’en_!”

The relief and innocent pleasure on his face warmed her so much, she could dance. But instead, at that moment, the door to the outer walkway opened, and her Commander swept in. He had a clipboard held in front of him, and it took him a split second to realize that he was not walking through the empty rotunda he had expected.

“Oh!” His solemn expression eased when he saw his company. “Solas. Inquisitor. Welcome home.”

Solas chuckled in reply and nodded at Ixchel, as though he knew she would be required to dip away. She could not wipe the bright smile from her face as she turned to Cullen. “Commander, would you care to walk and talk?”

Cullen followed her out of the rotunda into the great hall and toward Josephine’s office. “I had heard you returned, but I didn’t think I should spring a mountain of reports on you right after you got off the road,” Cullen said.

“Oh no. A mountain?”

He gave her a regretful look, and she laughed. Sometimes, with his cheek turned into his mantle and his eyes so wide and apologetic, he looked just like his dog.

“That’s quite alright. I would rather catch up and know what’s ahead of me, than have it sprung on me just after I started to relax,” she said.

Josephine was speaking with an Orlesian nobleman when they entered, and when Josephine saw Ixchel she gave her a bright smile. “Ah, Inquisitor! I have many wonderful things to tell you…” She seemed to recall her current obligation to the angry Orlesian, and her smile flickered. “…later this evening, perhaps?”

“I’ll have the time, Ambassador,” Ixchel said graciously, and then she and Cullen continued to the War Room.

“My, you have been busy,” Ixchel said when they walked in. There were markers all across the maps, and indeed, stacks upon stacks of reports on each corner.

“No busier than you,” Cullen replied. He set down his clipboard and went around to the other side of the table. “I went over the smuggling letters you found at the Red Templar port on the coast. Some of it speaks of the remaining Seekers of Truth, and I know Cassandra has a request to make of you. It’s dark news.” He crossed his arms. “I have also learned that while Samson is in charge of the Red Templar forces, he takes over after their corruption is complete. There is a larger red lyrium source, and a more central location where those men and women are subjected to the process. Investigating shipments we might find being smuggled on the trade roads might lead us to these places.”

Ixchel propped herself up on both hands and looked across the map. Was it the one in the Emprise, then? she wondered. She had come across so many mines, so many slave camps, so many half-dead, half-mad Templars…she was disappointed that she had lost track.

She nodded at Cullen. “You knew Samson.”

“He was a Templar in Kirkwall, until he was expelled from the Order. We shared quarters when I first arrived there.” Cullen bit his lip, tugged the scarred corner of it between his teeth. “He ended up begging on Kirkwall’s streets—all because he smuggled letters from a Circle mage to an outside sweetheart. I knew he was an addict, but this… I may have known him once, but…he should know better. That makes it all the more infuriating.” He ran a hand through his hair, his expression suddenly becoming more open—and more tired. “If I had not joined the Inquisition, I might have followed the man on this road to madness.”

She tightened her grip on the edge of the table. “I highly doubt that, Cullen.”

“No. You don’t know the Cullen who was left behind in Kirkwall.”

Ixchel and Cullen held each others’ gaze for a long moment. She studied him and looked for signs of worsening withdrawals. The circles under his eyes were better than they had once been, but his face was leaner, his mouth sadder.

“But the man who was left behind in Kirkwall,” she said, “was the kind of man who _knew_ to leave Kirkwall.” She paused to let her words sink in. “You know, I fought a Regret demon recently. I can’t recommend attracting one. Though if you ever need me to fight your regrets, I am always willing, Cullen.”

The faintest hint of movement at the corner of his mouth—she had to work harder. Or dig deeper. “How are our Templars doing?”

Cullen snorted. “A better question would be about the mages. With Vivienne and Fiona bickering all the time, most people can’t tell if the Inquisition supports the Circles or would do away with them. The Templars are included in that uncertainty.” He shook his head and dropped his gaze. “I know where you stand on the matter. I try to remind myself of that, and to remind the former Templars.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Thus far, we have had no abominations. I pray that remains the case… We have acquired a reliable source of lyrium—the normal kind—for the mages and the former Templars, but…it is difficult for me.”

She frowned. “To have lyrium nearby?”

“To keep silent while they take it,” he corrected softly. "Once your sacrifices are made, is there no end? Are you leashed until the day you die, or lyrium takes your mind away? The guilt, to requisition it as a necessary supply when I know better…"

Ixchel pushed herself upright and crossed around to the other side of the table. She leaned against it, facing him, and crossed her arms. “You are proving that madness or subjugation are _not_ inevitable,” she said firmly. “Look at you. Look at your brothers and sisters in arms. Discipline and dedication are your _lifeblood_ , not lyrium. Everything about the Inquisition is about being an example—standing where others fall. We walk a precipice on every front. And we must have faith that we will succeed.”

He clearly grappled with her words and his doubts, and she let him stew on it for a moment longer. “You know what I realized?” she asked, once she decided he’d had long enough.

Cullen made an almost-disinterested noise, still brooding.

“If you squint, Lake Calenhad is shaped like a bunny.”

He looked up so sharply at her, eyes wide with surprise, that she nearly burst out laughing. But when he saw her smile, he began to smile as well.

Cullen came closer to the war table and leaned beside her to examine the map. “Hah! I think I see it.” He chuckled. “Now I’ll never _not_ see it.”

She bumped shoulders with him and tilted her head back to give him a smile. “The bunny believes in you, Cullen. Remember that when you see it on a map.” Now, she truly couldn’t help her giggle.

And then, as suddenly and as simply as if a breeze had blown it in, there was another moment—a moment of almost reverence. It was like the moment they had by the campfire on the lonely road to Skyhold, where all she thought of was his breathing. His warmth. The tickle of his mantle against her temple, and the feeling of their shoulders and arms touching. She scoured his face, uncertain of what she was hoping to find, and she catalogued the lines of it, where it was sharp and where it was soft. She could so easily recognize the creases of grief, but smiles were coming more easily for him these days.

There was no guessing with Cullen. She felt certain in every moment she was around him—of him, and of herself. Each interaction wasn't a dance, wasn't a war. The weight of his pain made her feel strong enough to carry her own.

"Our forces speak of your kindness," he said in a voice so soft it was hardly a breath. It stirred the hair that had come loose to hang in her face. "The way you fight for them." Cullen brushed her hair behind her ear, and his eyes flickered to it when her ear twitched at the touch. Then, his eyes slid back to her face, down the lines of the vallaslin, to her lips. "If that's what you've accomplished, despite everything you carry...maybe there's hope for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*
> 
> Oh and uh I'm taking suggestions for Ixchel's merc name.
> 
> *runs away*
> 
> “Ajuelan,” and then she pointed at him, “Raj’aju’en!” - Craftsman/worker - Master of Crafting/Director


	31. Growing Pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/3/20

The door opened behind them, and Cullen nearly jumped straight to the Maker to put space between him and Ixchel.

“O-oh! Inquisitor. Ah. Uh. Do you still have time to discuss…?”

Cullen cleared his throat. “Like I said, we have some leads on the red lyrium supply. If we take it out, we cripple Samson’s forces.” Cullen patted a stack of miscellaneous reports. “Welcome back.”

Cullen fled.

Ixchel kept her back to Josephine, because she knew she must be as red as Highever Weave. “Josephine,” she said, and she hated how high her voice sounded, “you _absolutely_ cannot tell Leliana. Or Cassandra.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Josephine closed the door behind her, a laugh in her voice. Her heeled shoes clicked and clattered pleasantly against the floor as she approached the war table. “Invitations to the Winter Palace still have not been sent out, but the war across the Exalted Plains has shown signs of changing tactics, perhaps leading to a temporary armistice in the near future. Madame de Fer and I agree that it is time to begin preparations for such an event. Dance lessons. Etiquette tutors. And, of course, appointments with Madame’s seamstress. These will be necessary for you and whatever retinue you should choose to accompany you to Halamshiral.”

Ixchel straightened up and finally turned to face Josephine, trying not to look guilty. Josephine giggled. “You may need a balm for your cheeks, Inquisitor,” she said lightly. “Still red.”

“Fuck.” Ixchel scrubbed her face in her hand. “Okay. Well. Business. You’re absolutely correct, Josephine. Let’s go through my companions for that journey. There’s a reason an Orlesian Warden was sent to Ferelden—Blackwall doesn’t get along with nobility,” she lied. “Dorian would kill me if he wasn’t allowed to attend a party, and he’s got to be as good at the Game as any Orlesian. Varric’s too popular to leave out. The gossip he’ll be able to catch will be invaluable. I know Cassandra’s a princess, but there’s no way we’re going to be able to get her to use that. I’d like her to attend, but maybe she can coordinate with Cullen from the outside to smuggle our arms and armor inside the palace. She’d be happier that way.”

“Perhaps Dorian will be able to assist Vivienne and myself in the training process,” Josephine mused.

“I’m sure he’d be delighted. As long as there’s wine.”

Ixchel didn’t mention Cole. He would go where he pleased and be seen by those he wanted to be seen by.

“So then the Iron Bull, Varric, Dorian, Vivienne—what about Messere Solas?”

Ixchel had been trying not to think about _messere_ at this particular moment. She felt her blush flare anew, and she tried very hard to appear composed as she met Josephine’s eye. “Yeah. He’s a given. He’s a canny one, so perhaps he can work with Leliana.”

Josephine made some notes. “Then I am not so concerned about these lessons. Solas and Varric will be quick studies.”

“Bull is a _spy_ ,” Ixchel reminded her. “He’ll be good. And the nobles will fawn over him like a zoo animal.”

Her ambassador chuckled. “Our seamstress may not view him quite so fondly,” she murmured. “Very well. Then, I will compose a schedule of appointments and lessons for you and the Winter Palace entourage… I know it is impossible to predict the future, but it would be easiest to complete this training in a continuous span of a few weeks, with a refresher a day or two prior to the event itself. What I mean to say is…are you planning on staying in Skyhold for long?”

Ixchel shrugged. “We’ll do our best to avoid unexpected demands of a man who seeks godhood.”

Josephine laughed again. “Good, good. Now, to less pleasant topics… Deserters from armies on both sides of the civil war have banded together under new leadership, calling themselves the Freemen of the Dales.” Josephine chewed the end of her pen nervously. “They are trying to stake a claim on a territory within the Dales as a sovereign entity.”

Her Inquisitor smirked bitterly. “Perhaps Celene would honor the demands of humans claiming the Dales,” she said in a wry voice. “Keep an eye on them. They’re likely to harass people who _do_ have a rightful claim to that land—like villagers, or refugees, and I won’t stand for that. But there is _another_ unpleasant thing we should discuss, Josephine.”

She leaned forward again to look over the map of Orlais and considered her words carefully. She could sense the sudden anxiety rolling off of Josephine, but she did not want to alleviate it with false comfort.

“The Empress razed the Halamshiral alienage. Gaspard and his Chevaliers have hunted elves for sport from Orlais to the Free Marches. And Ambassador Briala has been part of the Game for so long the only way she sees to improve the lot of lives for the Elves is to create an Orlais exclusively for knife-ears—as though that would change anything except create a caste system of our own.”

Ixchel clenched her fists against the tabletop. “You and I must be very clear about our alliances and our negotiations as we go into this mess. We will not use _lives_ as bartering chips. We will not sell out _anyone_ to earn another’s favor. That is not how my Inquisition will work. If there is ever a problem that can’t be solved without breaking those principles, I will personally attend to it. And I swear to you, I _will_ achieve the goals of the Inquisition. So do not doubt me.”

Josephine pursed her lips and regarded the Inquisitor with an assessing eye. “Clearly I owe Lady Viviene some gold,” she sighed at last. “I do admire you, Your Worship. But I fear for you as well. Such things are so ingrained in the fabric of our cultures, after century upon century of reinforcement…”

“When bones set improperly, you break them again,” Ixchel said. “There is an old saying: ‘the healer has the bloodiest hands.’ You must accept the blood to make things better.”

“Ah, well, now Lady Vivienne owes _me_ some silver.” Josephine chuckled. “That is, if you plan on dressing in blood red for Halamshiral.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel took some time to herself then to clean the road out of her hair, as she probably should have the moment she returned. She had received an assortment of gifts and offerings while she was away, and among them were several toiletries of value—dried sea sponges, tonics and elixirs for the skin, sachets of crushed herbs to place under her pillows for restful dreams.

She took a long bath in water heated by enchanted stones at the bottom of the basin, washed her hair, scraped out the grime from her fingernails, and scrubbed herself raw with a sponge. Afterward, when her skin was still moist, she applied a sheer tonic of vandal aria and paid special attention to the cracked and raw callouses on her palms and heels, and her scabbed knuckles. The fragrance reminded her of sun-ointment, but it was a smell she loved: the smell of adventures, of exploration, of _seeking_.

Once clean, she searched around for clothes that weren’t road-worn or uncomfortably martial. She had yet to collect very many, however, having been so focused on routing Corypheus from the very beginning and spending so little time relaxing in Haven prior to its fall. Her wardrobe felt tortuously empty compared to what she had once been used to. She missed her slouching Chasind knits, her heavy Antivan blouses, slick and tight Nevarran leggings…and the undergarments.

There was a heavy bundle of furs and hide that had been accompanied by a note. Sky Watcher Amund had brought it with him as a token of good will. She was grateful for the warmth, and it felt so soft against her freshly cleaned skin.

Once dressed, she went in search of him and their new Hold-Beast. A few inquiries with the guards directed her to the yard beside the stables, where Amund had erected a tent for himself. The Avvar augur stood outside, his back to her—but he turned as soon as she laid eyes upon him.

The wolf cub was tucked in his arms, and its head turned toward her just as the augur’s did.

“Your people already sing songs of you, Inquisitor,” Amund rumbled. “This one raises his voice to join them.”  
Ixchel raised her eyebrows. “A talkative beast, then?”

The Skywatcher chuckled. “Indeed. He has told me his name: Amarok. He has been chosen by the gods to be the Hold-Beast of this place, though how you knew this…” He kept his dark gaze on Ixchel as though he was asking a question, but she really didn’t know either the question or the answer. “I have expelled the poison that the twisted ones placed in him. He has already doubled in size.”

The little white cub _had_ grown in just the past few weeks. He had once been so small she had been able to support him in one hand, but now he was as large as a human babe. And though he had not even opened his eyes last time she held him, now, he had not stopped staring at her. His eyes were bright blue, and they were far too canny.

“Well, I am honored, Amarok,” she told the cub. “Do hold-beasts require training, Sky Watcher?”

“Aye. There are many things a beast must learn. The gods will teach him some, I will teach him other things, and other things still he must learn from the members of the hold.” Amund nodded at her. “As Thane of Skyhold, he will answer to you on matters that require judgment. He will protect you and your people. He will provide in the lean times. He will drive out twisted gods and wicked men. And should the hold ever be in danger, he will fight to the death for it.”

“Does he require anything? Do _you_ require anything?”

Amund shrugged. “When he is much larger, he will need quarters. He may find them outside the hold, or he may be given a sufficient space.” He gave Ixchel a smirk. “Of course, you may wish to see how large he grows first.”

Ixchel extended a hand hesitantly, and Amund allowed her to pet Amarok. The wolf chuffed at her and chirped, which she took as a good sign. _“‘Favored like a wolf it was, in size like a Woodsman’s Death. Within its eyes burned eldritch fire, the Fade in every breath,’”_ she sang to it. “Grow big, grow strong, Amarok, and learn the lessons of the Rebel Wolf: chase not the courser hounds of the Dales, loose the slow arrow, and do not lose the People.”

Little Amarok’s long forelegs hooked around her hand and held it close.

Then he tried to nibble on her fingers.

She laughed delightedly and repeated to Amund that should he or Amarok require anything, he should ask and she would provide.

“Perhaps tell the tiny man Cabot to get real Avvar mead,” Amund snorted. “Lowlander ale tastes like goat piss.”

“I’ll talk to him about it. Have you met the Iron Bull? He’s also got strong opinions on our ale too.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel went in search of Cassandra next. It didn’t take long, because she could hear the Seeker shouting a mile away:

“YOU KNEW WHERE HAWKE WAS _ALL ALONG?!”_

Ixchel booked it into the armory and ran up the stairs, knowing Varric’s life was likely in jeopardy.

“You conniving _little shit!”_

“You kidnapped me! You _interrogated_ me! What did you expect?” Varric shouted, ducking under a blow and skirting the edge of the room away from Cassandra. “We were half expecting another Exalted March to come to Kirkwall! How could I trust you?!”

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa!”_ Ixchel threw herself between the two of them, her back to the dwarf. The last time she had witnessed such an argument, Cassandra had only been a furious woman seeking retribution. But now, there were tears shining in Cassandra’s eyes. Her makeup was smudged, and her hair was mussed. There were marks on her scalp as though she had been tearing at herself with her nails.

Ixchel lowered her arms.

“I told you what was at stake!” Cassandra roared.

“Enough shouting!” Ixchel shouted.

Cassandra rounded her shoulders, lip curled, and snarled—in a lower voice, at least: “We needed someone to lead this Inquisition. First, Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but he had vanished. Then, we looked for Hawke, but he was gone too. We thought it was all connected! A conspiracy! The world was ending! But no!” she spat. “It was just _you_. _You_ kept him from us.”

She punched a pillar. “Hawke was our only hope. The mages respected him. And if anyone could have saved Most Holy…”

Varric threw up his hands. “The Inquisition _has_ a leader! She _did_ try to save Justinia!”

Ixchel swallowed hard. “You’re a Seeker, Cassandra. That looks like Templars, and like you said, Hawke sided with the _mages_ at Kirkwall. He let _Anders_ go. What do you think Varric saw when you were coming after him?” Ixchel pleaded. Varric made a sad, disgusted sound behind her. “What happened, happened.”

Cassandra’s face twisted against her tears. “So I must accept…what? That the Maker _wanted_ all this to happen? That He…that He…”

Ixchel took a step toward Cassandra. “Hawke is with us now, Cassandra. Things have come together, and we’re all on the same side.”

“I know whose side Varric is on.” Cassandra snorted like an angered stallion.

“That’s unworthy of you,” Ixchel said softly.

Cassandra sniffed and turned quickly. She braced herself against a railing, head bowed. “Go. Just…go, Varric.”

Ixchel glanced at Varric. Despite the angry words exchanged, he was staring at Cassandra with concern. Ixchel tried to give him a look that said, _I’ve got her._ He seemed to understand, and he gave her a pat on the elbow before he quietly took his leave.

Cassandra buried her face in her hands. “I _believed_ him,” she said bitterly. “He spun his story for me, and I swallowed it. I must not have explained what was at stake… If I’d just made him _understand_ …” Her breath hitched. “But I didn’t, did I? I didn’t explain why we actually needed Hawke, what we wanted him to accomplish.”

Ixchel approached her slowly, and when Cassandra did not immediately brush off her hand, she pulled the Seeker over to a bench and sat her down. Ixchel sat on the floor in front of her.

“You’re right. Hawke would never have trusted me for a second,” Cassandra said bitterly.

“This isn’t about Varric, and this isn’t about Hawke,” Ixchel told her in her kindest voice. “We’re never this angry about what other people do.”

Cassandra’s lip trembled with barely contained rage and grief. “I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter. I should have been kinder.” She took a deep, shaking breath. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

Ixchel stared at the Seeker with her jaw on the floor. She had never had any idea that Cassandra had doubted herself this much. She knew Cassandra had wished she had done more to protect Justinia—but this? The utter blame? The utter denial of her worth?

“You _can’t_ believe that, Cassandra,” she said faintly. “This hasn’t ever been about the Mage-Templar war, not really. We’re facing a would-be god who maybe is responsible for the Blight coming to Thedas. How the fuck would you have known anything about that?"

She reached for Cassandra’s hands and held them both in her own. “You have been fair, and wise, and a _foundation_ for this Inquisition. We would not have had an army, had a single scout, had a guiding mission without you. Others would settle for _any_ future for Thedas, but you and I are dead-set on a _better_ future. That requires strength. That requires smarts. That requires _care.”_

Cassandra sniffled again. “Ixchel… I _don’t_ have regrets about making you Inquisitor… But maybe if we’d found Hawke or the Hero of Ferelden, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you. Put you through this.”

Ixchel gave a hollow laugh. “Hal and Hawke have been through enough,” she said. “I’m happy to deflect some of the Maker’s wrath from them.”

“Perhaps you’re right. If I’ve learned anything, it is that I know less than nothing about the Maker’s plans.”  
Ixchel gave Cassandra’s hands a squeeze. “What really triggered all of this?” she asked.

The Seeker’s eyes shone, then spilled over. “I have been trying to locate what remains of the Seekers of Truth. There was no sign of them among those at Therinfal Redoubt, or among any of the Red Templars we have come across. They have simply disappeared.” Her shoulders began to shake. “There are good men and women among them. I cannot stand to believe they would join Samson and the Elder One, but that would mean…”

“Perhaps they have gone into hiding,” Ixchel suggested.

“Regardless, I cannot find them on my own.”

“How can I help?” the Inquisitor asked her. “I know you left them, but they’re still your people. And we don’t leave our own behind.”

“They wouldn’t even look kindly on the Inquisition,” Cassandra muttered.

Ixchel shrugged. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn't help them, if they're in need."

“I have asked for Leliana’s help… I should not have waited so long, but I had not wanted to waste Inquisition resources…”

Ixchel shrugged again. “What else would we be doing with our money and soldiers? Helping Gaspard or Celene raze the Dales again? If there’s anything I can personally do, Cassandra, I will gladly aide you. Family is family. And I approve of the use of Inquisition resources, if you were worried about that.”

She unfolded herself from the floor and stood. “We will find them,” she told the Seeker.

“I am almost afraid of it,” Cassandra replied.

Ixchel hesitated for a moment, then sat back down on the bench beside Cassandra and pulled her under her arm. Cassandra wrapped her arms around Ixchel’s waist in return, and the women sat there in silence for a long while.

“I should go speak to Varric, but would you care to join me at the tavern later?” Ixchel asked eventually.

“I feel as though I have already spent the day drinking,” Cassandra said under her breath. “Oh, my head _aches_.”

Ixchel snorted. “Yeah, crying will do that to you. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Definitely,” Cassandra agreed. Her pinched expression eased a little. “Thank you, Ixchel. You are far more charitable than I—” She saw Ixchel’s suddenly furious expression, and she quickly finished, “am to myself.”

Ixchel smiled. “You’re learning,” she applauded.

-:-:-:-:-

“Cassandra’s calmed down. I think you can take your hand off your crossbow.”

Varric didn’t look up from the empty parchment in front of him. Ixchel could tell that he had been trying to write to cope, but the words never came.

“Define ‘calmed down’ for me in terms of who or what she’s punching now,” Varric muttered.

“Herself,” Ixchel assured him.

“I wasn’t trying to keep secrets. I told the Inquisition everything that seemed important at the time.” Varric sighed and put his head in his hands, so Ixchel took the seat on the bench opposite him and ducked her head to try and catch his eye.

“I know, Varric. You never would have kept quiet otherwise.”

“I keep hoping none of this is real. Maybe it’s all some bullshit from the Fade, and it’ll just disappear.”

“And that you’ll be back in a friendly bar, with all the people you love, and they don’t hate each other, and you haven’t made any mistakes that hurt them?” Ixchel offered. “Me too.”

The dwarf contemplated the tabletop for a long moment. “Yeah. I… I guess you’d know a thing or two about how this feels. Thanks for stepping in there.”

Ixchel made an agreeable noise. “Cassandra regrets it all, you know. It wasn’t even really about you, so don’t take it like it is.” She put a hand on Varric’s arm. “She does look up to you. It would mean a lot for her to know she hasn’t burned this bridge completely. If, that is, she hasn’t.”

“Nah… She hasn’t.” Varric raised his head. “We all know it’s hard for people to reflect on themselves and where their feelings come from. It’s just…that’s what I do _all day._ And it’s not _that_ hard.”

Ixchel snorted. “Yeah, and you and I _hate_ ourselves, Varric. Maybe ignorance is bliss. And sometimes, people like us still need to shut off our damn brains.”

“You suggesting something, Sunshine?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve been told our ale tastes like piss, and I need to test that for myself.” She threw her hands up. “I must personally assure the quality of my own tavern!”

“And _that’s_ why you’re a better Inquisitor thank Hawke ever would be.” Varric chuckled. “Hawke can’t tell the difference.”


	32. Our Orlesian Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/3/20

Ixchel and Varric found Harding outside the Herald’s Rest, looking somewhat anxious.

“I’ll go order a round to start,” Varric said, and ducked inside.

“Harding, what’s going on?” Ixchel asked, hands on her hips.

“Ah… Inquisitor. Uh.” Harding’s cheeks reddened uncharacteristically, and she scuffed a foot in the dust. “There’s a new bard.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… And she wrote a song… _about me.”_

“Oh!” Ixchel brightened. “That’s wonderful!”

“What!” Harding’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. It’s mortifying, Your Worship! I can’t go inside!”

Ixchel snorted and pointed at the sign that hung above their head. “How do you think I feel? Come on, hero. Maybe we can get some free booze out of it.”

“What—”

But Ixchel grabbed Lace by the shoulders and she steered the dwarf inside. Maryden had arrived, and she _was_ finishing up the refrain of _Scout Lace Harding_. No one paid much attention to Ixchel and Harding’s arrival at first, and she was able to drag Harding over to the table Varric had stolen for them. Bull wasn’t around—strange—but Ixchel loved Varric and Lace both unconditionally, and if she was about to get obliterated on goat-piss lowlander ale, it was going to be with the two people in the world she trusted most.

“Inquisitor,” Lace said firmly, “I owe you a round.”

“Absolutely not!” Ixchel exclaimed. “Varric owes me, and then I’m gonna throw my weight around and demand a line of credit and put all the rest on my tab. Why the hell would you owe me a round, Lace?” She took the flagon Varric offered her, and then held it out to toast her companions. “You’ve been warning me of traps and mud and ill weather and beasties since the day we met.”

Lace rolled her eyes, and Ixchel grinned. “Alright, alright. Who are we cheersing?”

“To not being ass-deep in corpses, having clean nails, and goat-piss beer!”

She beamed at Varric and Lace as they laughed and clinked their pewter glasses together. Then, she confirmed that the Inquisition ale was just the same as it ever was.

They talked over a range of topics that spanned the Waking Sea. Varric had an endless supply of scandalous stories from Kirkwall, Ixchel poured praise on Harding for her archery and goaded her into organizing an archery contest, and Lace taught them a drinking game some of the scouts had come up with in the field. The three of them were thoroughly sloshed within an hour or two, and Ixchel couldn’t remember a time she’d been happier since…well, since Sutherland and his company had visited Skyhold for the last time.

Ixchel suddenly excused herself and ran up the first flight of stairs to stick her head around and see if the would-be knight had arrived yet. Alas, she saw no sign of the plucky young man. A few Orlesians and former-Circle Mages gave her awed looks, and she waved the Anchor at them idly before slipping back under the banister to rejoin Lace and Varric.

She returned just in time to hear Lace say, “Dorian’s awfully pretty, isn’t he?”

Ixchel nearly tripped over herself trying to get back into her side of the bench. “Oh, Lace _, no.”_

Varric guffawed. “What, Sunshine? Is it the blood magic? The slavery?”

“No, no.” Ixchel grabbed Lace urgently, eyes wide with pity. “No, Lace. He…ah…Varric! _You_ explain.”

 _“Me?”_ Varric wheezed. “Why do I have to break the girl’s heart?”

Harding looked between the Inquisitor and the author with a deeply confused frown. Ixchel was spared from explaining further as Krem and the Chargers entered the tavern. She waved them over urgently.

“Your Worship! They named this place after you, yeah?”

Ixchel scooted over and let Krem take the spot between her and Lace, saying, “Lace Harding, Krem de la Creme—you’re the two _toughest_ lieutenants an Inquisitor could ever hope for, with the _sweetest_ of names.” She raised her flagon to the rest of the Chargers as they squeezed in around Varric. “Rocky, Skinner, Dalish, Stitches, Grim.”

“Nice to meet you when we’re not in danger of getting our heads chopped off,” Krem said with a roguish smile to Lace.

Ixchel beamed at the scout over Krem’s shoulder, because she had spotted a flush spreading across Harding's freckled cheeks, and she guessed it wasn’t due to the booze alone.

Varric leaned over the table to Ixchel and patted her on the arm with a congratulatory wink. “Good read,” he muttered. “Smooth ‘Vint and a canny farm girl? Shit writes itself.”

Ixchel toasted him and downed the last of her beer. “Alright, next round is on me… That ten drinks? Eight?”

The Chargers laughed at her as she stumbled out of the bench again and went in search of Cabot.

-:-:-:-:-

The next morning, Ixchel woke before dawn with a raging headache. She had kicked off all of her clothes and left the hides and furs strewn about all over her floor, and she hadn’t drank enough water. Her mouth tasted like hell and she was covered in a sheen of sweat—and she really couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there.

Rolling out of her bed, she picked up her hides and dressed herself, then examined herself in the mirror to see how bad her burnt hair looked after a wash. Fortunately, the immolation had caught at the ends, and she didn’t have the same early-onset-balding patchiness she’d suffered through after a dragon had caught her as a younger woman. But it was unfortunately now a little too uneven to be put back into braids without bits sticking out all over the place.

She made a face at herself, scars and ink twisting gruesomely in the reflection, and she turned herself upside down to untangle the mess of hair.

Then, she pulled her fur-lined hide wrappings closer to her and went downstairs.

It seemed much of Skyhold was still asleep. Of course, there were soldiers and workers out and about, doing their morning duties and exercises. She stood at the entrance to the great hall and looked out at the courtyards for some time, watching them. The sun was long to rise yet, and Skyhold was hushed and cold in the pre-dawn dimness. And she was so fond of it.

Ixchel eventually wandered toward the rotunda, careful to keep her bare feet light on the stone and the doors quiet behind her. She couldn’t decide if she was surprised that Solas was awake already. Dreamers were notoriously hard to wake, and Solas in particular loved to dream. But he was lounging on his chaise with a small plate in hand and a book in his lap—a half-eaten apple tart half-way to his mouth.

He had the nerve to look slightly abashed as he put the rest of it in his mouth.

 _“On dhea,”_ she said fondly.

He nodded at her and covered his mouth with a delicate hand while he chewed.

“May I?” she asked.

He nodded again, and she lifted his armchair up so she could move it closer to him without it scraping loudly on the floor. She settled it at the end of the chaise, which she used as a foot rest. Then, she settled back and looked up at the rookery in the distance.

Her head still ached.

“Vandal aria?”

“Someone sent a tonic of it,” she murmured. “Might have to go out to the Western Approach and fetch more myself.”

He made a sound, like a smile, but she did not look to see.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

 _“‘Our Orlesian Heart.’”_ He closed the book and set it aside. “Lady Montilyet requisitioned several resources for me, mostly related to the Fade.”

Ixchel gave the rookery a smirk. "What is this one about?"

“The former Sister Laudine was chased out of the Chantry for revealing an artifact that supposedly showed the ancient elves believed in the maker as actually a…book of marital instruction.”

Of course, Ixchel knew of Laudine. Varric had commissioned Laudine and several other _nontraditional_ scholars to investigate a portion of the Deep Roads under the Silent Plains, where a piece of what Ixchel guessed might have belonged to the Vir Dirthara was located. Somehow. The adventure had not gone well, and the report had been harrowing, but she assumed half of it was aggrandizing. She had not ever read _Our Orlesian Heart_ herself, but Varric said it was almost as raunchy as _Swords & Shields._

“Does she report these instructions?” she asked blithely. “What does it have to do with the Fade?”

Ixchel made the mistake of glancing back at Solas. He quirked an eyebrow at her. “The Fade is limited by what you can imagine, _lethallan_. It instructs one to…expand that boundary.”

She blushed so hard it made her head spin. She snapped her eyes back up to the rookery.

“Still don’t see its academic merit,” she replied.

Solas continued to smile. “Have you rested well, now that you once again have a mattress and a wash basin?”

“And an open tab at the tavern? Yes,” she said enthusiastically.

“Ah. That certainly would keep any Nightmare out. But at what cost?”

“I can _hear_ the smirk in your voice,” she whined. “You don’t know what I had to deal with. Cassandra was going to kill Varric. And then poor Harding has a crush on _Dorian_ of all people. I saved the _world_ twice over yesterday. Or at least, _their_ worlds.”

She slumped lower in the arm chair, and Solas moved his legs to give her some more room to stretch out hers on the chaise alongside him.

He was chuckling thoughtfully. “I met a friendly spirit who observed the dreams of village girls as love first blossomed in their adolescence. With subtlety, she’d steer them all to village boys with gentle hearts who would return their love with gentle kindness. The Matchmaker, so I called her. That small village never knew its luck.”

Ixchel looked back at him then. “What was she a spirit of?”

Solas shrugged one shoulder slowly, then settled back, his hands folded on his stomach. “She was kind, but that does not mean she need be a spirit of Compassion. The divide between spirits may seem stark to the Chantry, but it is not always so clean.”

“Are there spirits of Love?”

“Certainly. They are rare, and not what you might imagine.” He held her gaze with no heat, no curious questions, just comfortable interest. “Love is not only Passion. Love is not only _Com_ passion. Love may see like Envy, or Desire—or Despair.” He inclined his head toward her. “You know something of such nuance. Purpose can be Hope, or it can be Pride, or it can be Despair.”

Ixchel contemplated this and shifted again. Her half-human circulatory system was failing her, and her feet were cold. She felt guilty and shy, but she dared anyway to drew her knees up and slipped her toes under Solas’s legs to keep them warm. She felt simultaneously less, and even more guilty when he shifted to better accommodate her.

“This is a curious outfit you’re wearing,” he noted. “Does it not keep you warm?”

“Oh, quite. The Avvar augur gifted me it.” She pulled it closer around her neck. “He is a bit of a brute, but I think you might enjoy the Avvar’s philosophies. He has told me the wolf’s named itself Amarok. He’s already doubled in size.”

“And that is another curious addition to your image: a wolf at the side of a Dalish warrior?”

“Oh, I told him to avoid Dalish hounds lest he lose his tail.” She snickered. “It’s my understanding from the…wall paintings--I know they’re not frescoes--that my ancestors rode wolves as well as halla.”

Something tightened around the edge of Solas’s smile, and she tucked that observation away somewhere deep, a pile of clues for a mystery she may not ever need to solve, if things worked out. “Indeed... He was quite small, this cub. Doubling in size does not a mount make.”

“Don’t spoil my fun,” Ixchel grumbled with another smile.

Her stomach rolled uncomfortably, and her smile turned to a grimace.

Solas leaned forward a little. “Come here,” he said, and now his stare had something else in it. The reluctant desire, the almost-guilt—she recognized it. Had his voice gotten deeper, headier?

She leaned forward anyway, frowning.

His hands came up to her temples, thumbs pressed to the center of her forehead, and for the first moment she thought his hands were hot as coals against her chilled skin. Then, they grew cool, and the skin beneath tingled with magic. He pressed his thumbs across her forehead, down the sides of her face, lingering on her throbbing temples, then pushed back through her hair and followed the pulse that drummed in her aching head. The pulse eased, and when his fingers had reached the back of her neck, her headache was gone.

Ixchel shuddered as all the tension left her neck and shoulders. Her head had bowed as he moved his hands through her hair, and she was glad she had dropped her eyes from his. With the headache gone, she felt weak and empty. She wanted nothing more than to curl up, hide under his arm, and go back to sleep.

“…Thanks,” she breathed as she tried to regain some composure.

 _“Sathem,”_ he replied, voice deep and warm and low. “Do you have grand plans for the day?”

Ixchel was finding it difficult to sit up. She propped her head on her hands and breathed in deeply. She smelled the vandal aria on her skin and in her hair, and she smelled him, and she smelled magic.

“I am to go toe-to-toe with the Iron Lady on matters of politics and couture. Oh, yes, and Lady Montilyet is going to be organizing dance and etiquette lessons for us ahead of the supposed ball at the Winter Palace.”

“Hm. Preparing for the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex of the court?”

“I should hope not,” she replied, and she hoped her voice did not tremble. The lilt in his voice, the _fun_ he was having…

She remembered her awe at his blithe comfort when he had spoken to her, lounging in a corner at the Winter palace. The notes in his voice still aroused that thrill—certainly, it was the thrill of a mortal being caught in the hungry and approving gaze of a much more powerful predator—but it was now tinged with unease.

Because Ixchel knew why he had been so _pleased_ at Halamshiral that evening: within the first hour, he had stolen the eluvians from Briala.

Ixchel had suffered the whispers, the stares, the _rabbitrabbitrabbit_ , danced the stupid political dance as her advisers had directed, and she had felt naked and scrutinized and objectified, all so that the Orlesian pigs were distracted from a bare-faced elven "servant" sneaking around with some ancient mirrors. She had never really forgiven him for it.

Then again, she had tried not to show how it had effected her. Maybe if she had…

“I would rather not bring up any association with _this_ Dalish savage, sex, and, say, a Chevalier.”

Solas’s hand rested on her knee. For a moment, he did not say anything.

Then he tucked a ragged lock of hair behind her ear. _“Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma.”_

Ixchel leaned back, her ear twitching where he’d touched it, and avoided his gaze. He had uttered the promise so darkly, there was murder in it.

“Were there more of those tarts?” she asked, reclaiming her legs from under him and moving to make a quick exit.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel threw herself down on one of the grand chaise longue’s on Vivienne’s balcony. The First Enchanter turned from where she stood outside, observing the courtyard. “Ah, Inquisitor. It is good you have come. I was about to send for you.”

“I am humble enough to come learn from your experience, Madame,” Ixchel said generously. “But there are other matters I’d like to speak to you about as well.”

Vivienne chuckled. “I have not forgotten. Don’t get too comfortable. The dressforms arrived while you were away.”

Ixchel stood again—she _had_ been quite comfortable—and followed Vivienne to one of the rooms that overlooked the herb garden. It was full of fabric samples, paint, jewelry, and mannequins of all shapes and sizes, generally matching those of her entourage. Ixchel beamed at the sight.

“The entourage is still in the early stages. You and I can meet with my designer later. But I have spent a great deal of time and thought on how we shall package _you.”_

Vivienne went to a closet and pulled out a waterfall of fabrics.

“You had expressed a desire to use your status as the Dalish savage to your advantage. I do agree, and I believe that you have it in you to play the Grand Game at the highest levels. You once said, in so many words, that you do not _negotiate_ but _entice_. So we shall dress you in the purest desire.”

The elegant enchantress gave Ixchel a vixen’s deadly smile over her shoulder, then returned to begin layering the fabrics onto a dressform with Ixchel’s smaller proportions.

“There are many layers to desire and duplicity,” she said. “You can demand attention with sweetness and with the sword in equal measure.”

Ixchel drank in the swiftly evolving form of the gown. “I do expect that I will need to fight at some point in the night. I know of Orlesian bards. And it will be an assassination party, after all.”

“Indeed. Now, if only you were as deadly with daggers as you are with cudgels. Much easier to hide.” Vivienne’s smile was one-sided. “I have not yet stolen your spauldrons—the ones made of the brocade, with the dragon bone mail? But if you will lend me them, I will have my seamstress and armorer fashion a shawl for you in a similar style.” She dragged a finger over the shoulder of the dress form, adjusted a pin. “Pyrophite and highever weave for the shawl. A gilded leaf, dipped in poison, dripping blood. The best I can—or anyone can—offer for subtle protection is leather underneath, and a gorget, but a low one so it shan’t be mistaken for a collar.”

“Do many praise your genius openly in court, Vivienne?” Ixchel said breathlessly. “Because, Madame, you are a genius.”

Vivienne’s white teeth flashed brilliantly at Ixchel in the closest thing the Inquisitor had ever seen to a true smile. “Oh? This is but the _first_ option. There is an alternative with veridium, everknit wool, some lace… ” She turned to face Ixchel, however, and did not go fetch the second outfit. “But I would like to be clear, Inquisitor, that you represent the Inquisition and its goals. _Not_ the independence of the Dales.”

Ixchel waved a hand. “I seek no sovereign nation for my race, Madame. I seek an equal place in the societies that exist. I seek recognition for the honor and the might of my ancestors. Just as I do, as well, for the poor of all ancestries.” She sighed and reached out to finger a bolt of soft samite. “Orlais expects me to lick their boots for attention—I will demand it instead, from my gown to my ears to my whispers and smiles. They will soon expect the same of any of my people.”

_When he rises, everyone will see._

“How many dragon scales do you possess? And bone?”

Ixchel raised an eyebrow at Vivienne. “What do you have in mind, Madame de Fer?”

“To achieve such a goal, you will need to earn enough good will to enter the highest echelon of the Game: the most savage and demanding of tiers. You will face the power of an Empress. The power of men who believe themselves to be gods.” She turned back to the closet, considering. “When you burn it all down, spare one bridge for me to cross back to court, won’t you?”

“I owe you that, Madame.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “On dhea” - good morning  
> Sathem - you’re welcome  
> “Juame mar shalasha, la ane emma.” - I shall be your armor, as you are mine (…part of Dalish wedding vows heh)


	33. Sowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/4/20

_Sister Leliana —_

_None of our agents have seen the Hero of Ferelden, but our normal work led us to scattered references of him passing through the area. It will take a serious committment of resources, but we could attempt to contact him._

_Sister Rejeanne_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_We have had difficulty tracking down the Hero of Ferelden. It is not my first, nor second, nor even my third recommendation, but an intimate friend of Warden-Commander Mahariel is Empress Celene’s “occult advisor.”_

_The woman is an apostate who charmed the Empress and key members of the court as if by magic. Perhaps she may be able to assist us in both the matter of contacting the Hero, and securing an invitation to Halamshiral._

_Be warned: Morrigan is ruthless and capable of anything. It is dangerous to owe her a favor, so perhaps we can take the initiative._

_Leliana_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Lady Nightingale,_

_If you can arrange a meeting between myself and Morrigan, I am confident in my ability to negotiate a favorable outcome. Let me know._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor Ixchel,_

_The Marquis DuRellion has offered to build a monument at the site where Haven stood, as a memorial to all those who gave their lives defending such sacred ground. He has given us the option between financing the project, or supplying labor._

_Lady Montilyet_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Josephine,_

_Please work with Cullen to coordinate volunteers from our ranks to help with the construction. I believe this will bolster morale among our people and the People at large, to whom we serve as an inspiration. Let our banners and uniforms be seen, and let us also offer volunteers from among our ranks to recite prayers in the languages of all those who perished. If possible, invite representatives from the villages the fallen hailed from._

_Though any number lost was too many, there were few enough that this should be a feasible request._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Lady Inquisitor,_

_Please accept my thanks. The Inquisition soldiers were of great help in clearing the area for the memorial’s construction, and the sight of their uniforms raised spirits immeasurably. The monument will stand forever as a testament to the strength and fortitude of the faithful._

_Marquise DuRellion_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Leliana,_

_Skyhold has incredible potential for runecrafting and mastercraft smithing. Harrit will require the aid of an arcanist to fulfill our needs. There is one such craftswoman with great skill and a reputation for humbling first enchanters in both Andrastian and Imperial Circles._

_I’ve been told that two assassination attempts and one explosion have made landholders reluctant to allow her passage through their territory. She is currently in Tantervale. Is there a way we can escort her, undetected, from there to our Undercroft?_

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_The arcanist has been secured, despite great cost and concern of more than a few traditional-minded mages. Nonetheless, she has taken up residence in the Undercroft. I think Harrit finds her charming, but he’ll never admit it._

_L_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_To the Inquisition,_

_I found bandits stalking your patrols. They are the usual kind, and I can show your people where they are. I’d have tried to stop them, but they have swords, and I don’t. If you have extra, I will help. I want to help._

_D. Sutherland_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Dear Cullen,_

_The young man could be your Scout Harding. Outfit him and report back._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_The Sutherland lad was good as his word. The bandits were cleared with minor spoils._

_He may have potential._

_Cullen_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Cullen,_

_I believe that is exactly as I predicted. Perhaps I should have wagered coin on him._

_Don’t call him a lad—he’s as old as I am!_

_Unless you believe me to be a wee lass?_

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_Attached is an inquiry from the allied merchants of the monarchy of Antiva. They would like to assist us. Please look over their offers and give word should you like me to send diplomats._

_Ambassador Montilyet_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Your Worship,_

_I am writing to report increased darkspawn activity on the Storm Coast. It is sparsely populated, but they pose a significant threat to the Blades of Hessarian camp, your soldiers, and to travelers. Should they branch away from the region, villages would quickly fall under a wave and we might have another Blight at our doorstep._

_Assistant Captain of the Blades_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Captain,_

_The Commander is sending Ferelden-born soldiers eager to drive back the darkspawn. They will coordinate with you to route the most concentrated packs, while our scouts sneak behind their lines and determine their surfacing point._

_Inquisitor Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Sister Nightingale,_

_We have located the tunnel through which the darkspawn left the Deep Roads. Or, well. There’s four tunnels._

_Require mage or black powder to seal them._

_Scout Harding_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Sister Nightingale,_

_Please relay my thanks to Sutherland and Voth for their aide in sealing the darkspawn tunnels. Tell them I owe them each a flagon whenever I come back to Skyhold next._

_Scout Harding_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Ruffles,_

_I need a favor. Actually, let’s call it a loan, since I’ll pay it back. I’m attaching a letter from my editor in Kirkwall. It’s horrifying._

_You’ve got contacts with the Antivan print houses; maybe you could find out more than the guild._

_Varric_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Clan Lavellan offers greetings to the Inquisition and congratulates it upon sealing the Breach that threatened the world._

_While some Dalish clans hate humans and wish nothing to do with them, Clan Lavellan has always dealt fairly with all and wished only for peace. That said, we have on occasion been forced to defend ourselves from those who saw us only as potential victims._

_It has come to our attention that the Inquisitor, a member of our clan, may have been pressed into service against her will._

_She went to the Conclave simply to observe the peace talks between your Mages and Templars, and though we can attest to her upright moral character, we find it difficult to believe a Dalish elf would be raised to such a high position by a Chantry organization. It would ease our concerns to hear from her directly, and to know that she remains with the Inquisition of her own will. Our messenger, First Terinelan, knows Ixchel well and will report back his own impression._

_If neither Ixchel nor Terinelan return to us, we are prepared to begin negotiations to secure their release._

_We await your reply,_

_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

_-:-:-:-:-_

Ixchel stared at the note for longer than she realized.

Cullen eventually approached and put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Leliana and Josephine gawking at her.

 _“Sael_ Terinelan is _here?”_ she asked shakily.

“Indeed. We have offered him a place of respect, and he is being accompanied by Charter at the moment,” Leliana said.

Ixchel placed the letter down on the war table and then put both her palms flat on the wood beside it. The room was spinning.

The last time she had seen Terinelan, she had been a bare-faced, unmaimed teenage half-blood who had only been with the clan for two years. The body she wore now was not only scarred by war and creatures beyond imagining—she could explain that—but was quite obviously a decade older. But even more inexplicably, she wore the vallaslin of Dirthamen…and it had not been given to her by Istimaethoriel. She had never considered how it might impact her relationship with the clan, for Clan Lavellan had been long lost by the time Keeper Hawen named her Finder-of-Kin. And though she had hoped, this time, to save the clan from the duke’s massacre, she had not expected to see them ever again.

But here was the First of Clan Lavellan at her doorstep.

At least it was Terinelan. He had always been open-minded—and experimental—with his magic. If anyone could understand, it would be him. That is, if the truth was her only option.

Perhaps she could tell him, but ask him not to mention that she wore vallaslin. No, it would come up in any description of her across Thedas. The clan would learn of it eventually, if it hadn’t already.

The age would be the most confusing thing, and it would be easier to keep that a secret within the Lavellan Clan—that the last time _they_ saw her, she had only been a teenager—as opposed to trying to hide her _current_ age from the clan. Maybe she could pass it off as an effect of the time magic at Redcliffe…?

But she had no good explanation for where she had received the vallaslin. Keeper Hawen had not even met her yet. What would happen if word reached him through the Dalish gossip chain that she was claiming he had given it to her? What a scandal it would cause. She would lose any goodwill she had garnered among the Dalish.

Would the Lavellan Clan believe her ungrateful, for having taken vallaslin from someone else?

 _Appropriative?_ They did not know if she had earned it.

Ixchel clenched her fists. “Would it be too much trouble to have him sent up to my quarters? And refreshments. I would like to catch up with him in private.”

“Of course,” Josephine said. “I will have the food sent up first. When would you like him?”

“In an hour. I need to try and convince him that I’m here willingly, so I’m going to, ah, freshen up.”

Instead of immediately heading to her quarters, she found herself wavering at the edge of the rotunda. Solas had not yet noticed her, and she didn’t really know why her feet had brought her here—it was foolish, insulting, stupid of her to even think of asking this—

Solas hadn’t _told_ her yet he could remove vallaslin, after all. She wasn’t supposed to know that he could. And she didn’t _want_ it removed.

But it would be easier.

Tears welled in her eyes. She wasn’t good at lying. She wasn’t creative enough to lie well. But she would not remove the vallaslin she had worked so hard to earn. They were marks of her pride. They told her—after so long being called a half-blood, being rejected by elves and humans alike—that she was an elf after all. They paid homage to Ameridan, kept his memory alive within her.

Ixchel turned her back on Solas and went to her rooms.

In truth, she did not need to freshen up much. It had been two weeks or so since she’d returned to Skyhold from the Storm Coast, and she had put some more attention into fixing her singed hair. She had cropped it slightly shorter on one side and pinned that flat against her head wile she kept the other side long. She had taken pains to stay clean and to wear fragrances while she had them, and she had been able to obtain one more outfit: light leather armor, with a wolf pelt wrapped around her in a sash as she knew one day Solas would.

She came up to her quarters to find a delivery of strips of unleavened bread seasoned with herbs from the Free Marches, along with Ferelden cheese, and a pitcher of water. She brought them over to her desk and then went to make her bed.

What would Terinelan think of this shem bed? The shem windows? The desk? The books?

Ixchel cast her eyes around her cavernous rooms and felt like a traitor. She missed her custom-made windows, with the spherical trees of Mythal. She missed the fresco Solas had left her above her bed, the one she had never understood but had always _understood_.

She jumped when the knock came, and she uncurled herself from her bed and stood to face the door.

“Come in,” she called.

Seeing Terinelan again after so many years was like seeing a ghost. He, likewise, seemed to be entranced by what he saw before him as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The tall young man—he was only nineteen when she’d left—was sun-darkened, and his white vallaslin of Sylaise had not faded in the least. His green cat’s eyes were wide under his fringe of messy red hair. He still wore it longer in the front and shorter in the back, with his sharp ears pressed back against his head like an angered wolf’s.

His brow furrowed, and he reached for his staff.

She did not move, her mouth too dry to speak.

“Who are you?” he asked, and she released the breath she had been holding. At least he had not attacked her

on sight.

"I have so much to tell you, _isa’var’lin.”_

Terinelan tilted his head, ears twitching at the sound of her new accent. “Indeed.”

He followed her over to her desk, and Ixchel pulled her chair around so that they could sit on the same side. She pulled her legs up beneath her and curled her toes. “Have you heard somewhat of the ancient magister magics?”

“We have heard _many_ unbelievable things,” he said tersely.

“I have walked bodily in the Fade,” she said, and held up a finger, to count. “I have been sent to the future, and back. I have walked with spirits-made-flesh who are not possessing bodies, and are not warped into demons. I have learned so much about our ancient ancestors. There is so _much_ to tell you.”

Terinelan had not relaxed at all. He laid his staff across his lap and tightened his grip on it. “I have known you for years. I watched you, only months ago, a girl _not yet of-age_ , cross the Waking Sea with naught but the clothes on your back, and a bare face unmarked by war.” His eyes swept across her face, then examined her clothes, then went around the room. “I’m listening, Ixchel.”

She took a deep breath and spoke slowly, releasing only fragments at a time and assessing what pieces she had placed on the table and which still remained hidden:

“I came to the Conclave as a girl, just as you had said. I hid myself away, to spy, to sneak. And then I heard a woman calling for help. It turned out that it was the shem’s Chantry leader, the Divine, about to be sacrificed in some Blighted ritual by this terrifying monster who I now know as the Elder One. He was trying to use ancient magic, but I interrupted him. There was an explosion that tore a hole in the Veil. The Divine and I were thrown through, body and mind, into a terrible region of the Fade. I managed to escape, and fell right into the arms of the Inquisition.”

She held out her hand for him to inspect. His fingers were calloused and warm, as though he had just come out of the Markham sun, and his magic probing at the Anchor felt the same.

“I have since then had several encounters with magic that should not be possible. I walked in the Fade again, and out of it. I defeated the Tevinter Magister who the shem Chantry says brought the Blight into the world, and his false-Archdemon. I had so many adventures—and then, after all I had accomplished, there was a threat that I could not face. I failed. And someone worked more impossible magic to send me back here, to do it all over again.”

Her eyes burned, her throat felt like Corypheus’s hand was choking her out again. “I have been rushing, trying to do everything all over again, faster, better. In the life I lived, Clan Lavellan… Clan Lavellan was massacred by the Duke of Wycome. To me, you have all been dead for at least eight years. I’m not going to allow that to happen again. But I didn’t know how to explain this—” and she gestured at her face “—to Istimaethoriel.”

Ixchel stared up at Terinelan and blinked rapidly. “You’re the first person I have ever told all this, Ter.”

“I understand why,” he said in a dry voice. He sat back and finally relaxed his grip on his staff as he considered her. “I might be the only one insane enough to believe you… I _wish_ you were a mage,” he said.

She tilted her head.

“So you could have any idea of how this was accomplished. It is all so curious.” He shrugged. “Eh. So, _lethallan_. Tell me the _full_ story, and then tell me the story you would like me to tell the Keeper.”

Her shoulders fell. _“Ma serannas,”_ she breathed. “Oh, Ter.”

She told him of Redcliffe, and the Blighted future. She told him of Haven, of the False Archdemon and the ancient darkspawn magister’s claims about the Fade and the Black City. She told him of Adamant, the army of demons, the Nightmare’s realm. She told him of Imshael and the clan who had summoned him. She told him of Hakkon, and Ameridan the Inquisitor. And then, she paused.

She had something to decide.

“I have seen remnants of magic from Elvhenan and it’s like _nothing_ any the Dalish could ever imagine. Floating buildings, the ability to turn an army to stone with a mere frown—powers that we might think as god-like was mundane to all of Arlathan. I have learned, like some of our stories, that above these impossible mage-elves, the Evanuris ruled.”

Ixchel drummed her fingers on her desk and looked away from him.

“You are the First,” she said slowly. “You have learned much about the Creators. And how they were locked away. Istimaethoriel teaches them as parables, legends passed down to impart lessons. But the Creators were real, Ter. They, the Evanuris, were mages of great prowess. They were rulers, and like all rulers…they were twisted by the power they wielded. As I understand it, one by one they fell to great temptation. They became war-hawks, vengeful and bloodthirsty. No offering was enough. No magic was enough… The empire of Elvhenan grew corrupt, as all empires do… They enslaved their own people, and branded them in blood and lyrium.”

Terinelan stared at her.

“These elven slaves rose up. They fought against the Creators, even though they feared them as gods…and it lead to the ruin of Elvhenan. They all destroyed themselves. They were left weak to the human invasion. And the humans destroyed what the ancient Elvhen did not.” She tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. “Because of all of this, because of everything else that I brought back to the Dalish, a Keeper called me Kin-Finder and Secret-Keeper,” she said, finally allowing herself a small smile, “and gave me the vallaslin.”

“And you took it, even knowing what it was?”

She nodded fiercely. “Especially knowing what it is _now_ ,” she said. “We are the children of Elvhenan. We can take the mistakes of our ancestors and build something better out of them. We _will_. That’s what this means to me, Ter.”

Terinelan’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you do not speak of the Dirthavaren,” he warned. “That is foolish—”

“No, no. Fuck that.” She laughed. “Yes, another empire, another caste system, let’s _enslave ourselves again_ —that’ll be better than being slaves to the Masked Empire, surely.” Ixchel rolled her eyes. “No… Ter, the heroes of our age, the revolutionaries, the idols—they’re all elves and mages. We are already leading the world. We are earning their respect. We can _lead_ all people to equality. We can challenge these things that the world takes for granted. The Dalish have spent hundreds of years looking back, and learning. We can put those lessons to use and make the world better.”

At this point, Terinelan had slouched further in his chair and crossed his ankles out in front of him. He was contemplating her with a frown, but his frown did not deepen particularly as she spoke. “So much of what you say makes sense,” he mused. “Maybe that’s because I am young, but not a child: the elders would call this blasphemy, and the children would cry, for their beloved protectors and heroes were laid low before them in infamy.”

Terinelan contemplated her for a long moment. “What do you plan?”

Her smile faltered. “There will be a revolution, in the shadows, whether I lead it or not,” she said. “There will be calls, for elves of all nations, to restore the Elvhenan of the past. But it will end in fire and blood, just like it started. The agents are already out there. But last time, I didn’t know until it was too late. I tried to reason with them, but their plans were irrevocably in motion, and no alternative I could provide would suffice. But if I start early enough…”

Terinelan reached for her hand.

“That’s what I’m trying to do with the Inquisition. I _know_ I can thwart the Elder One. But what I do after? I have to lay the foundation now.” She clutched Terinelan’s hand. “We must unite the elves in the diaspora. Who better to remind the city elves that they are of noble blood? Who better to teach the shems to rebel? Who better to learn from the mistakes of _empire_ and _gods_ and create something _new?_ Who better than we, who have such long history, who have spent so long studying? We must rise up, and bring the downtrodden of all nations with us. We must teach them the song our blood sings, Terinelan: _we shall never again submit.”_

“Ixchel,” Terinelan said warmly, and in her name he packaged the weight of many unsaid things. For a moment, as his eyes glistened and they sat with their hands clasped tightly between them, she felt something swell up within her.

She was doing right by the girl she had once been: the shy one, the one who never thought she would ever belong anywhere, who had seen the handsome Lavellan First and became his shadow. Staring at him longingly as he showed her how to hunt. Hanging on to his every word as he taught her to speak Dalish. Sighing so wistfully whenever he finished a tale… And here he was, looking at her—with pride.

“I will remain a few days,” he said. “We’ll come up with a story for the Keeper, one that will set the stage for further revelations as you travel.” He covered their clasped hands with his. “What stroke of fate led you to us, _lethallan?_ Of all the clans, Lavellan would be the one to accomplish what you speak. And of all people, you would be the one to see that it could be done.” He smiled down at their hands. “There is revolution brewing in the Free Marches already, Ixchel. From Wycome to Kirkwall to Starkhaven. They look to us for leadership.”

“You’re all in so much danger, Ter.”

“The healer has the bloodiest hands,” he reminded her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sael - First (Dalish role)  
> Isa’var’lin - brother  
> “Ma serannas” - thank you


	34. Terinelan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terinelan --> one who created a stone that lights a fire inside. From the words: Terisin (name meaning 'flint inside') + lan (person)
> 
> [Project Elvhen: Book of Names, @FenxShiral]
> 
> 11/5/20

“—remember Neria, First Ralaferin? Since she was challenged at last Arlathvhen to defend Keeper Gisharel’s writings, she has only become more dedicated to compiling Dalish lore from each nation in writing.”

Ixchel mouthed the names as she wrote another note. She and Ter had come up with quite the array of papers, all strewn about her desk, some on the floor. There were clans to reach out to, open-minded ones who stood with Gisharel’s decisions to share Dalish lore with human scholars. There were cool-headed, young, Firsts and Seconds who might be able to guide other clans’ attitudes over the coming months. There were certain clans who had friendlier relationships with certain human settlements who might, like Lavellan, agitate for self-advocacy among city alienages and human poor houses. Other clans, with magic overflowing in their bloodlines, could send strong-willed mages to the Inquisition to serve and to deflect some negative attention away from their clans. Merrill’s relief efforts among refugees needed sponsorship; Mihris was spreading the word among the Dalish that Orlesian city elves were gearing up for a revolution of some kind; Neria needed funding and protection to travel and collect her tales.

“Deshanna will be proud, _asa’ma’lin,”_ Ter said as she wrote. She glanced up and found him watching her intently, but still smiling. “Two years ago, all you wanted was to be left alone. And now you are trying to light a new spark, to unite all _el’vhen_ in _harilla’nas…”_

“I needed a project,” she deflected lightly.

Ter’s smile softened a bit, and he leaned forward to catch her hand again. “It cannot be your fault that you were not able to save that other world,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, it can.”

It could, because her not-quite-lover was responsible for it. Because maybe she had unintentionally urged him into that course of action. Because maybe she hadn’t earned enough of his trust. Because maybe she hadn’t won enough of his respect. Because maybe she hadn’t been strong enough to demand the full alliances and attention required to thwart him. Because maybe she should have been paying attention earlier. And because she had given up.

“Perhaps what I meant to say is that no one could blame you for not being able to save the world a _sixth time.”_ He narrowed his eyes at her pointedly. “Once would be more than enough. Mahariel was content with _one_ Blight.”

Ixchel blew air at him sharply, and it sent the fringe of his hair that hung in his face fluttering. “You have your story?” she asked him.

“Yes, yes. I have my script.” He patted his chest, where he had tucked Ixchel’s letter for safe-keeping. “But, truly, Ixchel. Are you becoming addicted to action?”

“No,” she replied, “I am simply pathologically afraid of what my brain does when it is unoccupied and alone.”

 _“Lethallan,”_ he said disapprovingly.

Ixchel pushed one of her papers with one finger, idle, and then nudged him with her foot. “Are you asking me for a drink, Ter?”

He had not let go of her hand, and he had not leaned away, and he still had not stopped smiling. “And? What if I am?”

“Then I would say, I am glad you are staying for a few days, because I am about to _drink you under the table.”_

Terinelan laughed, and he unfolded his lanky frame from the chair and tugged her toward the door. “What if I drink you under the table too? Will there be room for the both of us? I’m not familiar with shem bar tables.”

“Oh hush, I happen to know you are.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel brought Terinelen to the tavern, where she and Dalish bought him several rounds of drinks and cajoled him into singing Free Marches songs, which Maryden also happened to know the tunes for. Ixchel was not so drunk that she did not make note of Dalish's knowledge of Free Marches tavern jigs, and she added it to her pile of sometimes conflicting evidence for the woman's origins. Blackwall and Bull joined them at some point, and by nightfall, Ixchel was thoroughly drunk and she and Terinelen were leaning on each other on the edge of their respective stupors.

She and Dalish and Ter were a pile of warm bodies and caressing fingers and sloppy nuzzles, and it was so much like bedding down in an aravel after a feast day that for a few moments Ixchel didn't really know where she was. Eventually Bull had to reach in and drag out a protesting, half-asleep Dalish, and he sent Ter and Ixchel stumbling back out into the courtyard.

It was a bit of a blur, but they found themselves sitting on the front steps of the great hall, looking up at the sky. Terinelen recited his favorite fables about various constellations, and Ixchel listened, her knees pulled to her chin and her fingers interlocked around them. At some point, she stopped looking at the skies and started looking at him.

It felt like she was sixteen again, being around him. But it was so different from the way Solas made her feel young. Sometimes she felt like a stupid pining girl who knew nothing about the world. Around Terinelen, she was fresh-eyed, lighter, more electric, and in more awe. And she was content to watch the starlight illuminate Sylaise's slave brands on his face, white and shifting.

He finished recounting the story of the owl, and he looked over at her with his cat eyes and smiled. "And after the stories, _da'len?"_

"Then it is time to dream," she murmured. "I... Ter… All I am is the Inquisitor. Half of the time I feel like they’re going to make statues of me with clipped ears. And the other half of the time I think they should, because I wasn’t raised in a clan, and I don’t really belong to you all, and…"

He put his hand on her back, fingers bunching in the ends of her hair with idle curiosity. "Deshanna has made it clear that you are one of our own,” he told her, “and you were well on your way to proving it to yourself. You did not have to go to the Conclave. But we knew that no matter if we told you that you were part of our clan, you would not feel like you were until you had proved it to yourself.”

Ixchel sniffed deeply. “I had just gotten used to having a family,” she said bitterly.

“I can't imagine. Being alone in that room? You could fit three aravels in there. And a herd of halla."

"Now _that's_ an idea." She sighed.

"It is a war, but would you not have time to start a family? Find someone to keep up in that nest? Make a clan for yourself."

Ixchel shifted and pulled her knees up to her chin. "Believe me, there was a time when I had half of my crew sleeping up there with me. But everyone leaves, someday, Ter. Who am I to stop them?"

His fingers traced intricate circles on her back.

"You are a woman," he said softly. "You are the owner of a beating heart. Is that not reason enough?"

She sighed again and looked back up at the sky. "No," she said. "Not when the people I love could be off saving their corners of the world."

"Then have them make your corner, their corner."

Ixchel gritted her teeth as though to keep back a burst of flame. Her chest was white-hot and her heart was bruised by it. "If they wanted to, they would," she snarled. Her own anger frightened her, and when she dug her nails into her arms she found herself shaking with it.

And still Ter rubbed her back. Now his fingers danced up and down her spine, coaxing amid the comfort.

"I can make my feelings known. I _used_ to. I loved all of them so deeply, and they knew it, and...and...they all left in the end. I can't begrudge them because I loved them enough to understand why they had to leave. But there's no point in telling them now or asking them when...I know how that turns out."

Ter let out a long, soft breath, and he looked up at the sky as he considered her words. Finally, he whetted his lips and spoke:

"It is not selfish to teach the halla the harness. We let them roam, unchained and untethered. But they come back to us, they step into the harness of their own will, because we have told them we need then to stay.” He smiled. “Halla are undoubtedly wild. It is their nature to be fearful and to flee. But we have asked them to stay, shown them the place we would make for them...and they stay."

Ixchel's eyelashes fluttered, but she wasn't quick enough to catch the first of her tears. She was so angry at him for speaking as if it were so simple. As if everything she had done and said to express her love and dependence on her friends hadn't been enough. She almost hated him for it. But she loved him too.

Ixchel hung her head and pressed her eyes into her knees. "You're leaving soon, then?"

"I must, else Deshanna will send a small army after us."

"You're right."

"Of course I am. Deshanna didn't pick me to be First for my good looks."

Ixchel snorted into her knees.

Gently, Ter tugged on the back of her shirt until she straightened up, and then she turned into him and he tucked her under his arm. She breathed deeply of him: the smell of polished iron bark and the road, a hint of the halla, and of course the ale. His fingers continued to bunch and relax in her hair. His breath was on the top of her head, steady and even.

"Stay the night with me?" she asked, barely a whisper into his chest.

"Of course."

With a surprising amount of coordination, he helped her walk back to her quarters and up the stairs. There, he shrugged out of his cloak and his armor and laid his staff and the letter to the Keeper down in the pile. His shirts slithered to the floor. In the meantime, Ixchel fell face-first into bed and curled herself around the soft, warm wolf pelt around her shoulder.

His hands, searching and soft, pulled it free and unclasped it from around her, then laid it back out for her as a pillow. Then he slipped in to bed beside her and wrapped his arms around her, tangled their legs together, and altogether shrouded her in his existence.

 _"On nydha, da'len,"_ he said into her hair.

The vice around her heart finally eased. She released a long breath, one that perhaps she had been holding for months or even years.

 _“On nydha,”_ she replied into his chest.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel didn’t know how she felt about the fact that breakfast for two was delivered to her door. There were no notes to indicate if it had been a simple observation of the kitchen staff, or if one of her friends or advisors had tipped them off. Against the pounding of her headache, she cursed herself for not having thought of decorum and public opinion before she brought Ter back to her rooms for the night.

But the happiness she’d felt upon waking, her cheek on his chest, his snores under her ear, and his fingers still bunched in her hair, far outweighed any regret for what the population of her hold might think.

She had somehow become an earlier riser than he, so after she fetched the breakfast tray from outsider her door and arranged it on her desk, she was treated to the sight of him half-naked in her bed, hair mussed and face utterly at peace. And though her fondness for him was still partly born of the fanciful crush she’d had on him as a girl, it was far outweighed by the gratitude she felt now for having a friend, someone who was family, someone who showed her unconditional affection and support unabashedly.

Ixchel was going to miss him.

 _“On dhea, lethallin,”_ she called to him.

She had decided that she was going to give him a gift before he left.

-:-:-:-:-

They dressed and ate, and Ixchel told him some of Solas. He was her gifted, clanless hedge mage who had spent much of his life traveling ruins as she had—with the added gift for Dreaming. An endless supply of true—or at least, spirit-remembered—lore from Elvhenan and lost civilizations, he was also a powerful mage with a strong dedication to the People.

Perhaps a little too strong, she amended. “He doesn’t think the Dalish would ever want to know. One of the ones who thinks he’s a true elf, and no one else wants to be.”

“Well,” Ter had replied, “he’s not wrong.”

She had turned wide eyes on him, and he’d chuckled. “Sure, Ixchel. Sure.”

They both had discussed the previous day how important it was to collect not just the remembered history of the Dalish—and of that of the Dales before the Exalted Marches—but also to correct it. It could no longer be the case that history belonged to the educated elite of Orlais, kept in dusty tomes locked away from the public eye. If the world were ever going to learn from the past and the mistakes of their predecessors, they would need access. And half-remembered, glossed-smooth parables would not suffice.

So Ixchel knew, that despite her hesitation and despite Ter’s roguish smirks, they needed Ter to hear some of these truths from Solas himself, and for Solas to see that there were Dalish willing to listen to them.  
Ixchel was glad that she was wearing gloves, because her palms were sweating profusely as she dragged Terinelan down to the rotunda.

Solas was still working on the base colors of his first panel of the fresco. He had already sketched out much of the rest in charcoal, up to the events of Haven’s fall, and Ter drank it all in with awe.

Solas looked over his shoulder at them when the door shut behind them. His eyes did not noticeably flicker to Ixchel and Ter’s joined hands; his expression did not noticably change from its impassive mask; he hardly even stopped painting. And yet, Ixchel noticed, and her heart twisted.

“Solas,” she greeted. “The First of Clan Lavellan has come to visit us.”

 _“Tuelanen i'na,”_ Solas said, and he set down his paintbrush.

 _“Tundra ghi’l em amahn,”_ Ter replied. “Ixchel has told me you are a mage of great power, and an explorer of our shared history. I would be honored to learn from you while I am here, _hahren.”_

Solas carefully wiped his hands on a paint- and charcoal-dirtied rag, and he approached them. Ixchel almost shrank back, because suddenly it seemed that he was taller, that he strode more purposefully—and that purpose was not a kind one. His footsteps were loping like a predator’s and he towered as he asked:

“What if the only thing I can teach you, is how everything you have ever learned is wrong?” His voice was significantly colder than Ixchel had hoped. He pinned Terinelan with narrowed eyes. “What if generations of your ancestors have spun myths into history, and fragmented history into myth?”

Ixchel held her breath.

“Then they did the best they could have, with what was available,” Ter said, “and I will aspire to do better, with your help.”

Solas looked down, and the Veil pressed back thick around them; the menace and danger had passed, and Ixchel recognized the tiniest trace of a smile twitch at his face. When he glanced up in her direction, she offered him a small, hesitant smile.

“Perhaps it is the trying that matter,” he said, so simply, as if such an admission did not rock her, did not heal something broken within her, did not give her such unbelievable hope. “Very well. Let us interrogate this history you speak of. Preferably on more neutral ground. The gardens, perhaps?”

-:-:-:-:-

But of course, Morrigan had chosen that very morning to appear in Skyhold.

No guards had seen her arrive, and no one could explain how she had ended up on Vivienne’s balcony, lounging on a chaise and reading an issue of _The Randy Dowager Quarterly,_ with no witnesses. But as Solas, Ter, and Ixchel made their way across the Great Hall to the gardens, Josephine fluttered out of a stairway and alerted her to their new guest.

Ixchel stood, torn between chaperoning Solas and Ter, and going to meet Morrigan—

Solas stopped as well, hands clasped behind his back. He offered her a thin smile. _“Sael_ Lavellan is of your own,” he said, “and I will treat him as such. See to your duties, Inquisitor.”

“I trust him,” she told him. “And I trust you. Don’t either of you make me a fool, please.”

Ter waved her off, an easy smile on his face, and she _did_ trust them both.

“Ambassador,” Ixchel said turning to Josephine. “Please apologize to Lady Morrigan for my tardiness. I must fetch something, and then I would like to meet her in…the library below your office. Yes.”

“Right away, Inquisitor,” Josephine said, but her expression and voice betrayed her uncertainty.

“I’ve _got_ this, Josie,” Ixchel assured her in a conspiratorial whisper.

And she did.

She went back to her quarters in as unhurried a run as she could manage, and she rummaged wildly through her desk: ring, book, letter, glyphs. Then, she looked herself over in the mirror again and tried to tame her wild hair—had she really rolled right out of bed and done _nothing_ with it before going downstairs? _Really_ , Ixchel, how would that help quell the rumors?—and fluff her wolf pelt.

Then, Ixchel scrubbed the last traces of sleep from her eyes and then headed down to meet Morrigan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “On nydha,” - good night  
> “On dhea - good morning
> 
> “Tuelanen i'na,” - Creators be with you  
> “Tundra ghi’l em amahn,” - kindness brought me here  
> Hahren - respected elder


	35. Dirthara ma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/6/20

Morrigan strolled in to the library, a finger extended to trail across the spines of books as she passed. She was dressed differently than Ixchel had seen her at the Winter Palace, or even after she had come to Skyhold to advise them. A hide was slung around her shoulders and trailed behind her as a cloak, and the strips of leather that hung around her belt and fluttered when she moved did not dance across bare skin but rather against fleece leggings tucked in to high, fur-trimmed boots. She was almost _modestly_ dressed, and it almost convinced Ixchel that she were speaking to an imposter—but then Morrigan turned her owl-like, golden eyes on Ixchel and there was no mistaking the wicked intellect behind them.

“Welcome, Lady Morrigan,” Ixchel said warmly. She did not invite Morrigan to sit, but rather she herself went to lean back against a bookshelf. The items she had brought as an offering remained on the desk between them. “I apologize for the delay.”

“‘Tis no offense,” the witch said. She paused at the threshold of the room, where the hall turned into a circular dais. “I in fact arrived in the night, but took the liberty of observing your operation here…Lady Inquisitor.”

“Please. I would not have my title replace my name _quite_ yet,” Ixchel said.

“And it is an interesting name, is it not?” Morrigan clicked her tongue behind her sharply white teeth. _“Ixchel._ Certainly not Dalish, but neither is it Tevinter nor Elvhen.” Her eyes wandered to the owls positioned so watchfully on either side of Ixchel, then landed on Ixchel’s scarred face. “I have heard many interesting things about you, _Herald.”_

“And I, you.”

Morrigan chuckled darkly. “From the Lady Nightingale, perhaps? I can only imagine what treachery she believes I may be capable of. We did not leave each other’s company on amicable terms after the Fifth Blight.”

“Not from the Nightingale, no.” Ixchel reached for the table and picked up Mahariel’s ring. She turned it over in her fingers, and then she held it out. _“Nuva lasa su ma enaste.”_

Morrigan reached, and Ixchel pressed it meaningfully into the witch’s delicate hand. As Morrigan examined the ring, Ixchel said, softly, “Not many know how Warden-Commander Mahariel survived his battle with the Archdemon.”

“And you do?” Morrigan raised an eyebrow coolly, even as she slipped the ring onto her finger.

“I merely wish to prove to you that I…understand and respect the power you wield. I give you this freely, and I would give you these—” she gestured at the desk “—for the same reason.”

Morrigan ran her hands over the papers detailing elvhen glyphs revealed by Veilfire from across Ferelden, sliding each away from her with an unchanging expression. “So you _think_ you are studied in ancient ways. You _think_ you understand the power I wield. You _think_ you know how the Hero of Ferelden survived striking down the Archdemon…”

“And I _think_ you would prefer the Empress not to be assassinated under your nose,” Ixchel said.

Morrigan looked at her sharply. "Yes," she mused, "that would be remarkably inconvenient."

“I wanted to return Halevune’s ring to you, Morrigan, but I wanted to make sure our warnings reached you. It is my understanding that every letter we have sent to the Empress and her guards has been…lost. Someone in the palace is a traitor, and they have been careful in making sure the Empress is not aware of this new threat upon her life.”

“Mmm…The Empress’s life is always under threat. There is a Civil War, if you had not yet heard.”

“This threat is far beyond a petty Orlesian title. The man who destroyed the Conclave, who caused the Breach and who would open it again, is one of the Magisters Sidereal who breached the Fade in ancient times and possibly unleashed the first Blight upon the world.” Ixchel crossed her arms and rubbed her left elbow nervously. “In light of Halevune’s role as a Warden, that should interest you. The fact that, likely due to the Elder One’s influence, every Warden in Orlais has heard the Calling—that should concern you for Hal’s safety. The fact that this ancient, intelligent, magical darkspawn yet possesses the power to sunder the Veil again should concern you, be it for selfish or selfless reasons. He commands a Blighted dragon reminiscent of an Archdemon, and I…through experimental and accidental magicks…have seen the Blighted future he would bring upon the world, should he succeed in his plans.” She nodded at the table. “Plans which include Celene’s assassination.”

Morrigan at last came to perch on the desk, and she twisted Mahariel’s ring on her finger thoughtfully. “I had heard rumors of this Elder One, but no more. ‘Tis more unbelievable to hear them confirmed… Now, Inquisitor, I do not pretend to understand _politics_ , but I believe that the Empress would not be inclined to root out this mole prior to her peace talks with Gaspard—and she certainly would not put off said peace talks. The optics, or whatnot. It bores me, but that is my assessment of the situation. What is it, then, you desire, Lady Ixchel?”

The younger woman produced a letter and handed it to the witch. “A list of demands?” Morrigan mused. But then Morrigan read it, and her brow eased.

“Ahhh,” she sighed when she reached the end. The letter began to burn around the edges, until at last Morrigan blew the ashes off of her fingertips. “I do believe I can be of assistance, then. Thank you, Inquisitor, for your warnings. I shall inform my love, though I suspect he has already gone far beyond the Elder One’s sphere of influence. It is a heavy thing, that I should bid him to stay away in such fraught times…but neither of us are so fragile that we would not do what is necessary.”

She began stacking the research papers together.

“I shall do my best to secure a personal invitation to the Winter Palace. ‘Twould be easier if you could perform some noteworthy feats on Orlesian soil, but one way or another, I suspect I shall see you at Halamshiral—and if I do, I will address the rest of your concerns. You shall hear from me as soon as I hear from Halevune, in any event.” She paused then, considering the glyphs written before her with a tilted head. “I am curious…the way you speak Elvhen. ‘Tis not as a Dalish might.”

“It’s not,” Ixchel said flatly. She leaned back against the bookshelves again.

Morrigan gave a short laugh. “I look forward to our continued acquaintance, Inquisitor.”

“Me too,” Ixchel said. She watched Morrigan turn down the hall once more, and though there had been many things that warmed her spirit lately, she could not help but feel a more acute sense of loss. She missed Morrigan. It was good, to see her, to play with her, again—but it was not the same.

Ixchel stared down at the now-bare desk for a long time, and she wondered if she had enough hope to even bet a copper on it.

-:-:-:-:-

She longed to go join Terinelan and Solas, but now that duty had swept her up, she had to see it through. She found Josephine and informed her of the development with Morrigan—and that Morrigan had already left, more than likely.

“You and Leliana had mentioned that there were some things I could do to push the Civil War along,” Ixchel said. “I know that there are signs pointing to an armistice, but if there are any opportunities for us to become players on that board, it would make it much easier for Morrigan to secure us an invitation. I would much rather we appear as neutral parties, invited by this strange occultist, rather than play for Gaspard or Celene’s favor at the cost of the other.”

“I shall try to identify any such opportunities, Inquisitor. Oh, and—Lady Ixchel, a letter has arrived from King Alistair. It is on the war table, at your leisure.”

Ixchel went to the war room alone and sorted through several stacks of reports. She changed the way they were grouped, tried to remember the state of affairs on the Exalted Plains and how she could appear as a neutral party, rather than providing assistance to damn Gaspard’s troops alone. Then she made some notes for Leliana to find the elves Ter had pointed her toward, under the guise of recruiting more skilled scouts into the Inquisition—a suitable, if temporary, lie.

She responded to Alistair’s letter—he had thanked her for the offer of returning Caer Bronach to Fereldan hands. Her messenger had made quite the gracious scene of it, at the last meeting of the banns. One lord had been so moved as to offer to station a lieutenant to govern the fort, though everyone agreed that the Inquisition should be allowed to staff the fort and continue to police the area for bandits. Given that allowance, it would only make sense that the lieutenant-governor should be expected to consult the Inquisition on matters of the fort’s use. It was as good as she had hoped for, and she smiled at Alistair’s doodle at the bottom of the letter of a stick figure wearing a crown, hands grumpily on its hips, surrounded by nervously smiling stick figures labeled _lords of no-fun._

Hopefully these lords of no-fun would remember her graciousness when it came time for the Exalted Council.

At last, she felt like she had accomplished enough, and she headed out to the gardens. Her friends were there, and she leaned against a stone column to observe them, for neither of whom had noticed her arrival.

They were tucked in the veranda: Solas gesturing and speaking, Ter watching the flowing movement of his hands and nodding. She wondered what Solas had been telling him. Did he start with the vallaslin, or some greater heresy? Was it one she had already known?

She would have been content to wait there for hours, watching them from afar, and she could not particularly pinpoint why she was reluctant to join them. She wanted to hear more stories from Solas. She wanted to sit with him and have him teach her truer history than she had learned in her own wanderings or from the stories of Lavellan’s Keepers. But she wanted, more than anything, for Solas to bask in the pride and exhilarated interest of his audience for as long as possible.

She and Ter both understood that whatever movement they were about to start, it had to be a better option for the poor, the downtrodden—human, thin- and full-blooded elves alike. Her movement had to be more appealing, more promising, than whatever revolution the other agents of change might propose. What Ter perhaps had not yet realized was that Ixchel hoped their movement would be a better option for those agitators themselves.

And she had been careful not to tell Terinelan the identity of the outside agitators for a new world order. She had not spoken of Fen’Harel or Briala, or of the inevitable Qunari invasion. So she watched Fen’Harel and his new pupil, and she hoped that in Ter’s face he saw the beginning of a new world—not ghosts reminding him of the end of one.

“The Herald stands against it and heads turn. Desperate…and simple. Pure. Voices in the Chantry. Years since I’d sung the song and felt it flowing through me. This is real. _This is real._ So long since I’d felt it. Falling, flying, faith. And I _fought_ her. Maker, forgive me.”

“Thank you, Cole.” Ixchel did not turn. “Chancellor, it is good to speak with you. You saved us all.”

“I have prayed every day that is so.” His voice was more haggard than she had heard it, even when he had been stabbed by a Templar and died.

“It is,” she said, without a question in her voice. “I have been hoping to speak with you, Lord Chancellor. Lady Pentaghast as well. I believe each of us carries the same conviction, yet at times we have viewed each other as enemies rather than allies. In the face of the Elder One, we must of course look past the things that might irritate us about one another—but once the Elder One is gone, I’m afraid that old grudges may lay waste to alliances that could change the world for the better.”

She tilted her head to look at Roderick over her shoulder. He had walked with a limp every since Haven, and Cole often appeared at his side—like now—to ease his travel. Ixchel wasn’t sure if Roderick ever remembered the boy, or even heard Cole speak. But now that Cole had brought the man to her side, the spirit left, and the Chancellor regarded her through weary eyes.

“I too fear such things,” he said. “I have been listening, and the soldiers and scouts have been listening, Inquisitor. Your ambitions are honorable, but as you say…honor alone does not win loyalty.” Roderick sighed and gestured toward the little alcove Chantry down the corridor from them.

She pushed off of the column and walked slowly at his side as he shuffled to his place of worship.

“Many of the powerful within the Chantry are more concerned with maintaining power and influence than exerting it—or even in comporting themselves in the ways Andraste modeled for us. That is certainly the case among those who will convene to elect a new Divine.” He groaned a little as he came to sit on a small bench inside the Chantry door. “At the lower levels, you have those like blessed Mother Giselle, who act as Andraste might, but have no ambition to reign in the excesses of the leadership or the follies they might commit.”

Ixchel stood in front of Andraste and contemplated her pointed crown, her uplifted arms.

“Andraste did not form the Circles… She did not plot the extinction of her oppressors.” Roderick looked up at the statue as well, eyes bloodshot and weary. “But it is our duty. To lead by example. To speak truth to power when they are in the wrong—even if they are our own.”

“As you did, to the Inquisition.”

“I… I admit I was misguided—”

“No, Roderick.” Ixchel turned to him and offered him a small smile. “Cassandra likes to say that everyone ‘lashed out like the sky’ in the wake of the Breach. Fear is the great unifier, isn’t it? Fear solves itself by finding an enemy to point to. Your blame on me was misguided, clouded perhaps by a desire for importance, to be seen as righteous, or at least to reclaim agency from a world that was falling apart. But questioning the Inquisition, questioning its oversight, questioning its reach, and questioning if it was truthful in what its stated mission was? That was not misguided. It is as you say: your duty.”

He blinked at her, almost unseeing. “Thank you, my lady,” he said quietly.

She inclined her head, then looked back at Andraste. “So you say you've heard the soldiers and the scouts. I've heard lately that they argue over whether I’ll reinstate Circles and Templars.”

“They do,” he agreed. “But they respond to such questions with the same question: who do we serve? The poor, the suffering, the forgotten. We have all been deceived—Mage, Templar, soldier, Sister... We have all been corrupted. What constant remains, but the pain, and the sorrow? One path lies behind us, and we know where it leads. But forward?

_“I cannot see the path._  
_Perhaps there is only abyss._  
_Trembling, I step forward,_  
_In darkness enveloped._

_Though all before me is shadow,_  
_Yet shall the Maker be my guide.”_

Ixchel listened to Roderick’s reedy voice chant, and she looked up at Andraste and her pointed crown, her uplifted hands. “I do not believe Andraste sent me,” she said, “but I may believe I am a Herald. If this is what they know I stand for—then let it be what I am Herald of. I have no ego in this, Roderick. Hold me to that. But…yes.” She glanced back at the Chancellor. “Honor alone does not win loyalty, but honor inspires trust. I would have you trust me. I would have our people trust me, and in each other. Then, together, we will find the path forward.”

She extended her hand for Roderick. “I would trust you, Roderick, to consult with Leliana and Cassandra how the people believe we should move forward. Let’s tackle the project of remaking the world now, so that it’s ready when the world is saved.”

Chancellor Roderick took her hand and clasped it in both of his own.

-:-:-:-:-

She could not shake the melancholy that had fallen over her when Morrigan left. They had appeared to each other as shrewd women with agendas, and it left a bitter taste in Ixchel’s mouth. Once, the witch had been _only_ a friend—a role model—someone to learn from. And once, Solas had only been her idol, her tutor, her beloved. Once, Roderick had been only her enemy.

Things had been so much simpler, and so much less sad, when she had not known so much.

It broke her heart to admit it, but she did not, at the moment, want to learn anything more.

Ixchel quietly escaped the gardens through the back staircase and stood on the battlements overlooking the river valley. The wind whipped her hair about her face viciously, stung her eyes, but she stared relentlessly downward at the growing barracks, the lit watch towers, the caravans trailing toward Skyhold like iron filings to a magnet.

_“Dirthara ma.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nuva lasa su ma enaste.” - may it give you grace. (you’re welcome, very archaic, not-Dalish)  
> “Dirthara ma.” - may you learn (the worst curse!)


	36. Oculara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big election mood / my entire life mood
> 
> have to send in my computer for repairs so I may probably be doing this exclusively from my phone for a week or two uwu
> 
> 11/7/20

“We are not dead yet,” Terinelan said to her in parting. “Write to us, _lethallan.”_

She watched him leave with the morning caravans and did not wave. He did not look back. They each had their duties, and they would fulfill them. He trusted her, and she trusted him: this was not meant to be a parting. Not for long.

-:-:-:-:-

“What do you think it _is_ about you that makes it so easy to fall in love with you?”

Ixchel yelped and dropped her jeweler’s tools as Dorian suddenly spoke, unabashedly loud and prying. The staff blade she had been crafting for the very same mage nearly slipped out of her lap and on to the stone beneath her. She had tucked herself quietly into the veranda in the gardens and largely kept out of sight of the herbalists and meditating faithful—until Dorian, it seemed, had come looking for her.

He chortled delightedly at her overblown reaction to his interruption.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about, Dor?” she demanded, gathering her tools and project closer.

The mage leaned against a column at the opening of the veranda and tutted, arms crossed. “Is it the ‘Herald’ business? Need I get myself a title?”

“I’m sure ‘Archon’ would find you plenty of lovers,” she snapped. “ _Who_ are you talking about?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Let me put it this way, dear Inquisitor: it seems that half of your inner circle cannot take their eyes off of you when you enter a room, and certainly did not _smile_ for your sake when they saw you gallivanting around with the young man who came to visit.”

Ixchel pinned Dorian with a hard look. “Half?” she repeated. “At best, two.”

“So you _do_ know what I’m talking about!”

She scowled at him. “Dorian, let me put one thing to rest right at this moment: nothing happened with Ter and I. The Dalish live in tightly-packed communities where familiar touch is important, and seeing him made me incredibly homesick. I’m sure it’s the fashion among the shems to live alone and lonely in giant empty rooms in giant empty castles, but I hate it! So I indulged in being Dalish for a time. That is _all.”_

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Living on top of one another? How ever do you find the privacy to fool around?”

She glowered at him.

“Regardless, it is quite fascinating to find that you are, in fact, aware of your admirers. Here I thought you were perhaps too focused on your duties to notice.”

Ixchel looked down at her tools. “It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “I _should_ be so focused on my duties that I don’t notice. Especially because nothing will come of it.”

Dorian hummed with interest and sidled closer. “Are you admitting that you might want—”

“Just stop, Dorian,” she said, and she felt his attitude soften. “Thank you for the reminder that all of Orlais is about to be heavily invested in the occupants of my bed.”

“Well, that much is true. It doesn’t matter if there is living, breathing individual occupying it or not, however. There will be enough gossip—that you’ve seduced the boyish Commander with blood magic, or used some ritual sacrifice to your heathen gods to grant you sway over our sweet Seeker. Why not play it in your favor, Inquisitor?” He shrugged idly. “To your other point, all the Archon’s lovers are simply assassins who haven’t received their contracts yet.”

“What would be to my advantage, Dorian?” she pinned him with a stare, and he looked away. “An even more savage elf than the 'knife-ear' rats they keep in alienages and shackle into poverty? A woman who apparently claims to be a messenger of their prophetess, come to denounce them? Unless I chop off my ears and scrub my face, romancing even the sweetest Chantry boy will not be to my _advantage_.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. What would be to the advantage of your _feelings?”_

“I have none,” she proclaimed, and she turned back to the staff blade in her hand.

“I find that terribly hard to believe after listening to you proselytize so often about leading with your heart.” Dorian finally came to sit on the bench beside her, feet kicked out and ankles crossed languorously. “How is that working for you, by the way? Coming up with some way to pull the floor out from beneath the Orlesians’s pretty little feet and drop them into a pit of self-reckoning?”

Ixchel twisted a piece of wire intricately around a small notch on a focusing crystal. “You first,” she said. “I think you have a head start on me with this whole changing-the-political-system-away-from-sadistic-castes thing.”

“What a mouthful,” he said, wrinkling his nose. With uncharacteristic gingerliness, he reached into his jacket and produced a letter. “A letter regarding Felix. He went to the Magisterium, stood on the Senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, I’m informed. No news on the overall consensus, but everyone back home is talking. Felix always was as good as his word.”

“Oh, Dorian.” She looked up at him. “Was?”

“He’s dead. The Blight caught up with him.”

“You said he was the best of you,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian contemplated the letter solemnly. “With him around, you knew things could be better,” he said. “The world needs more mages like him, who put the good of others above themselves…”

“Not just mages,” she corrected, and she nudged him. “And I’m looking at one right here, Dorian.”

“You’re right. Felix wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.” He nudged her back. “But it does mean there’s one less person to look to for hope.”

They were quiet for a moment. The silence was only broken by the soft jingle of metal and stone as she worked. “It would be nice if someone had answers,” Dorian said at last. “I suppose that’s why I like Andraste so much. She just, I don’t know, _sang_ a bunch and her followers were inspired to do good by their people.”

“There’s an accapella singing group—”

“I’ve already tried. They stand no match for my dulcet tones,” he interrupted. “No, no. Singing isn’t the answer. And, unfortunately, ravishing good looks aren’t, either.”

Ixchel chuckled and began to etch a pattern into a strip of wood she planned to press into an intricate insert along the blade. “It’s going to be a fine balance,” she told Dorian. “Corypheus and I aren’t the only ones trying to reshape the world in our images… I have to convince the world that my image is the better one.” She grinned down at her work. “If only I had avoided the dragonlings earlier, it wouldn’t be such an uphill battle.”

He tutted. “Now, there _are_ people who are into the ‘I had a roll in the hay with a tiger’ look.”

“Are _you?_ ” She raised an eyebrow at him, then laughed at his expression. He seemed caught between saying something salacious and apologizing for misleading her, and it made him look somewhere between a trapped halla and an Orlesian clown. “Relax, Dorian. I _know_ ,” she assured him.

“Ah, well, some people just have the sense for those things, I’m told.”

She shrugged and turned the staff blade over in her hands. “I suppose since you’re here and not in Tevinter, I’m going to be the one to walk this path first, eh?” Ixchel held up the blade and offered it to him. He reached for it, but she didn’t let go. “It’s not just the exhaustion I’m worried about anymore, Dor,” she said quietly. “It’s…hopelessness, like you say. Is it even possible? Are people even _capable_ of change?”

Dorian met her gaze just as solemnly. “We have to say it until it’s true, I think.”

Ixchel released her gift into his hands.

“If we’re fighting for what’s in _our_ hearts, Ixchel,” he said, “then it _must_ be possible that it is present in others’ hearts as well. Keep the faith, woman. Keep the faith.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel had tried to escape the gardens by climbing up the roof, and there she had found an arrow. She recognized it by its style—ancient Elvhen, like those wielded by Sentinels she had encountered over the years. And she recognized the writing: _bellanaris din’an heem._

She climbed all the way up to her rooms and studied it in private, but she was unable to place its age amid the construction of Skyhold’s facade. Once again, she wished she could ask Solas.

She set it down on her wardrobe, along with the note about an inscription found amid Skyhold’s construction _under_ a pillar. “Old, bust still long after the place had been built over,” according to Gattli and the archivist working together.

_Var’landivalis him sa bellanaris san elgar_  
_Melanada him sa’miras fena’taldin_  
_Nadasalin telrevas ne suli telsethenera_  
_Tarasyl’an te’las vehn’ir abelath’vir_

She recognized now that Solas had refused to translate it for them correctly lest he tip his hand, but she understood enough to know it was about the Dread Wolf. It certainly sounded like him—apologies and promises.

Ixchel climbed down again from her quarters and began her usual circuit through Skyhold: through the rotunda to the battlements, then down, spiraling around to catch as many friends and companions and followers as she could. Solas was not painting, but standing over his desk and shuffling through papers with a stormy look on his face. A few shards were laid out in front of him.

“You’ve discovered something,” Ixchel said. “Something you don’t like.”

“Each ocularum is made from the skull of a Tranquil.”

She stopped in her tracks. “What.”

“I had wondered what happened to them when the Circles fell,” he said bitterly. “I almost wish I had not looked.”

He stepped aside and nodded at a paper on his desk.

_Alexius was quite clear in his orders. We must scour the countryside to find more of the shards. Without them, the Venatori cannot claim the treasure our master seeks. For that, we need the oculara. Without them, the shards are nearly impossible to find, even if they are no longer cloaked by whatever magic hid them for all these centuries._

_There must be more Tranquil in the area—the rebels abandoned most of them when they fled their Circles._

_Remember, the skull will only attune properly if the Tranquil is in close proximity to one of the shards when the demon is forced to possess him. Even then, the blow must be delivered immediately. The oculara produced from Tranquil killed even minutes later failed to illuminate the shards when used._

_I trust you to continue your efforts in this matter. Our master expects success._

Ixchel rounded on Solas, her eyes wide. They stared at each other in shared fury and disbelief, and then Ixchel snatched up the paper and stormed toward the stairs to the library.

Solas rushed behind her and caught her by the elbow. “What are you going to say?” he asked forcefully.

She knew he was right. She knew that if she shoved this in to Dorian’s face, he would excuse Alexius’s actions as just part of the culture he had been raised in: one where Tranquil were hardly deemed sentient creatures. She knew it was part of a conversation that was just as futile as arguing with Vivienne about the worthlessness of Circles and Templars.

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the note.

Ixchel turned to place her back against the wall and slid down it until she was curled at its base, knees to her forehead. “How do you convince someone to stop denying another’s fundamental worth as a living creature?” she asked the floor hopelessly.

Solas leaned against the wall beside her. “It is a lesson I still have not learned. In my experience… _scolding_ them has not produced reliable results.”

She shuddered at his chagrined tone.

Dorian was a kind, sympathetic, _good_ person. She knew that he could be made to doubt the atrocities his countrymen took for granted—but he had already started that journey on his _own_. How many Orlesians, how many other Tevinters, had done enough self-reflection to even begin questioning the cruelty their entire culture was founded upon? How many good people were there, really?

There were far too many whose hearts had atrophied, who could not be bothered to care about how their actions and words might hurt others—even to the point of costing someone else’s life. What would she need to say or do to resurrect that seed of empathy they had surely let die within them…? What would she need to say or do to have them _want_ to be empathetic creatures once more…?

“Fuck,” she hissed through her teeth. She dug her nails into her scalp and squeezed her eyes shut until she saw stars. “Fuck… I need King Alistair to send me Alexius. I must make an example of him.”

She looked up at Solas wearily. He had his arms crossed and was looking down at her such that the harsh shadows cast across his face highlighted his clenched jaw, his flared nostrils. “What will you do?”

“Pardon him,” she said in a mounrful tone. She held his gaze and searched it for any kernel of wisdom she could find. She found only muted fury. “I would like to kill him, but… He has to be an example. There has to be room for redemption in my world. I have to believe… I must convince myself…” She bit her lip, then burst out: “If you live alongside someone, you have to start seeing their worth, right? So he’ll serve alongside our Tranquil and research the theoretical magic bullshit, and we’ll treat them with equal dignity, and they’ll see. They’ll _all_ see.”

But she knew her words lacked conviction, and she knew that he knew she hadn’t yet convinced herself. He held out his hand for her, and she took it, to stand. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her, as though a physical bulwark might keep her doubts at bay. But he released her hand once she had stood, and she was left with the pilfered note and the weight of her looming judgement hanging over her head.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel worked on reports across the table from Varric, who was trying to hammer out the next draft of a manuscript. He had been frowning and scratching out lines for over an hour.

Cole popped up at his elbow, and without even raising his eyes, Varric asked:

“Hey, Kid. What would a Pride demon say to weaken a warrior’s resolve? I need something that gets under her skin.”

“Does she use a big sword, or a sword and a shield?”

Varric gestured with his pen at Ixchel. “One of the big two-handers.”

_“‘The next time you imagine him touching you, someone you love will die.’”_

Ixchel froze, her own pen pressed intensely into her paper. She stared at Cole, who’s eyes had gone distant, seeing beyond her, not even seeming to realize that she was there. A large blotch of ink had formed under the tip of her pen. Her fingers ached from how hard she dug it into the table.

“Well.” Varric seemed only slightly taken aback at Cole’s words, and he had not noticed the change in Ixchel’s demeanor. “That went a little dark… Who’s ‘him’ in this?”

“She knows who he is. Does it not work for your book?”

Varric chuckled. “No, it works great. Just glad you’re not that kind of demon.”

Ixchel gathered up her belongings and fled up to her quarters. When she reached her desk, she dropped everything she had been carrying and slumped over her desk.

Her elbows shook as she held herself up, and she watched detachedly as her inkpot oozed across the floor where it had fallen. She tried to tell herself that Cole was just helping Varric in his own strange way, and that his comment didn’t have anything to do with her, not really—but she was having a hard time of it.

She bowed her head over the desk until her forehead touched the wood and she bared her teeth in a silent scream of frustration at herself. She had tried to tell Dorian that she had no personal desire, no feelings, but of course that wasn’t true. She had _such_ feelings.

They were about convincing Solas this world was worth preserving. They were about uniting the downtrodden into a movement convinced of their own equity. They were about the nature of mortal hearts, about what she was meant to do with her life. The world as it was a cruel place, and any distraction—any dalliance, any desire—meant that its suffering would continue.

It was why she had let them all go, in the end: her friends, scattered to the winds. Keeping them, for her own comfort, meant others would suffer.

It was a good reminder.

The battles ahead of her were hopeless enough. The high road was a lonely precipice. She wanted, more than anything, for someone to choose to join her freely, to commit, to stay, to promise they would follow. But she could not ask, she could not search, she could not pursue that company lest she let her mission suffer.

Ixchel slammed her fist into the desk top and wept. 


	37. Paths and Purpose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologize for any errors, formatting or otherwise. Written and posted from my phone! Thanks for hanging in there, and for your comments :)
> 
> 11/9/20

Ixchel lay back against the cool stone wall and accepted a glass of water from Josephine. She was sweating profusely, and the fires that were going in the Great Hall weren't helping. The air tasted of smoke and sweat and she couldn't wait for the lesson to be over so they could open the doors again. But for now, she had to wait for the rest of her entourage to run through the paces of several Orlesian dances until Vivienne was satisfied in their mastery. Even though Ixchel considered herself quite coordinated in general, and she had practiced these very circuits several times throughout her life, not to mention the past three weeks straight, Vivienne was a relentless perfectionist.

Ixchel tied up her hair and grimaced at how wet it felt.

Dorian, of course, looked even better than usual, drenched in sweat. He was thoroughly in his element as the stand-in dance partner for all of them, and thus far he'd danced with Vivienne, Leliana, Josephine, and Ixchel. Now it was poor Cullen's turn.

Ixchel gave him the respect enough not to watch as he floundered, and instead she pressed her wet shoulders back against the wall and sighed.

A wave of cool air washed over her, and she looked up to see that the stone above her head had been frozen; it dripped and frosted and cooled the air around her so luxuriously she almost moaned. But she didn't, because it was Solas who had cast the spell on the wall, and they were in public. She dared to glance at him and found his eyes cut at her slyly from across the room. She couldn't even tell if she was blushing because of the way he looked at her, because her face was already so warm from exertion.

She had known Vivienne would put her through a work out, so she had dressed for it in loose trousers, bare feet, and a light sleeveless tunic thrown over her breast band -- and that was soaked completely through. Suddenly strangely uncomfortable, she tucked her burned arm closed to her and tried to hide it in her lap.

Josephine fanned her with a particularly feathery import from Orlais.

"Alexius should arrive in a few days," she told Ixchel. "I'm told that the Crestwood Mayor has been found near Denerim. I sent word to Alistair that Crestwood is his jurisdiction, and so the judgement is his."

"Thank you, Josie," Ixchel said with palpable relief. When Josephine had first presented the option to her, of sending Alistair the Crestwood Mayor as another sign of deference to his crown, Ixchel had jumped on it with gratitude. It saved her from having to deal with the moral quandary of his situation, and it bought them more good will with the Ferelden lords. A stroke of political genius, she'd called it. But mostly it was a selfish mercy.

Leliana stood nearby. "Josephine, Madame, and I have been talking, Inquisitor. It sounds like your dress is coming along quite as intended."

"Oh? I'm glad. It already looked so fine on the model."

Leliana grinned. "Indeed. It certainly will help you with your agenda. And what an interesting one it is: the softest or hearts wielding the hardest of paddles."

Ixchel nearly spat out her water. "Excuse me?"

"Leliana is imagining that you will, ah, wallop the Orlesian courts for their hypocrisies and shame them for knowing better but defying the Makers will anyway." Josephine sighed. "I am rather hoping you will take a more delicate approach. Not a kind one, but more of...a knife between the ribs."

"And Vivienne?"

"She believes you to be a Champion," Leliana said.

Josephine nodded. "Champions aren't particularly known for subtlety."

Ixchel let her head fall back against the wall. "Subtlety allows for willful misinterpretation sometimes," she pointed out. "When you're trying to catch an eel, it's not time for silk gloves."

Josephine's eyes widened. "What...where'd... I must admit I have never heard such a turn of phrase."

"I made it up just now," Ixchel said blithely. "It works, though."

The three women winced as Cullen stepped on the hem of Dorian's robe again, and Vivienne made them start the dance over from the beginning. "Well, I'll be more delicate than that," Ixchel muttered.

Josephine stifled a laugh behind her hand.

Ixchel frowned down at the stone between her legs and worried. She worried that Cullen had a headache, that his lack of coordination was due to withdrawals and not obstinacy. She worried that this humiliation would serve no purpose. Cullen would just refuse to dance anyway at the Winter Palace. Who were they kidding?

Ixchel stood and went in search of some distrscrion. As she worked the circuit around the room, her path led her over to the Undercroft where she, Dagna, and Harrit had been slaving away for so long. She gestured to Dagna and they gathered up armfuls of clothing and weaponry and armor and brought them out into the Great Hall.

"Ah, Madame," Ixchel interrupted before Vivienne could offer another critique of Cullen's form. "I actually have something important to handle... If we could take a moment's pause?"

"Now, my dear?" But in Vivienne's voice, Ixchel heard a note of begrudging relief.

"Yeah, Dagna, uh, has a meeting to attend to shortly? So now would be best." Ixchel gave Dagna a wide-eyed look, which the arcanist returned with an obvious wink.

"I know we're not done with today's examinations, but we've put in a lot of work, and I wanted to thank all of you for it," Ixchel said. She passed by Cullen and hissed, "Flee, you fool!"

He bowed and scraped and ran away on unsteady legs, while she presented Vivienne with a new staff. She had modeled it after the staff of ancient Archon, Lovias, but with a head of stormheart with lightning essence trapped inside. The trip was plush and soft with fennec leather that had been embossed with arcane symbols for better magical conduction. Vivienne twirled it and couldn't help the sharp smirk at how it whirred through the air so elegantly around her head.

Dorian had already received a new staff blade, but Ixchel had ordered a custom tailored set of robes and leather armor for the mage that happened to be in his favorite style of silk and favorite shade of thick brocade. he held it up to his shoulders and cooed at it, twirling. "Check the rune," she told him, and his eyes nearly popped out of his pretty face at the sight of the masterwork.

For Bull, she and Dagna had fashioned a new war hammer with a coat of silverite, a core of lightweight obsidian, and a hooked counterweight of heavier iron. Into its head they had worked a very large and very powerful dragon-slaying rune. He slung it over his shoulders and grinned at his reflection in its surface.

For Varric, Ixchel had commissioned several new silk shirts in various colors, as well as jackets, all meant to accommodate better armor--which she and Harrit had worked on with rough hide and august ram leather. She had looked into textiles and patterns from Kirkwall and the leather was embossed and embroidered with them. He clearly noticed from the reverant way he looked down at them.

But she hadn't forgotten her advisors: a new set of fine daggers with intricately carved pommels decorated with Andrastian symbolism for the Nightingale, and for Josephine, a fine letter opener that also had an official seal on its butt--and a hidden compartment for poison that could be injected if the penknife was stabbed into something with enough force.

Cullen had run off, and Blackwall and Cassandra were currently out in the field, having been excused from the dance lessons, but Ixchel had gifts for them too. She had to sort through them to get to Solas's.

She knew he did not need a new staff, or amulets of power, or even any gifts, really. What could she give a god? A god who might leave? So Solas, she presented a folded set of robes she had helped sew herself, and a pillow she had likewise made--stuffed with small sachets of herbs for calmer sleep. 

As he took the gifts and held them to his chest, there was a look in his eye that was purely warm and grateful. She gazed up at him, her heart aching in her chest, and she forced herself to turn away.

"I think we must take a brief intermission to put away all of this finery," Vivienne announced, and everyone immediately fled the room.

-:-:-:-:-

When Cassandra returned, Ixchel could tell that the Seeker had an urgent lead. She saw it the moment Cassandra entered the war room.

Ixchel put down her reports and nodded at Josephine. "Taking Solas and Blackwall," she said. "Keep working on Varric and Bull's dancing!"

She laid a hand on Cassandra's arm as she passed, and the two women swept out of the room. Cassandra unleashed a slew of angry information--chases on horseback, lots of dead Seekers, even more Venatori and Red Templars. She did not pause when they entered the rotunda, and Ixchel gestured for Solas to pack and arm himself, or when they crossed through Cullen's empty office and went down to the stables. Cassandra's angry words clearly agitated the horses, so after Ixchel had signaled to Blackwall and Dennit to prepare, Ixchel led Cassandra back out into the yard to let the Seeker vent.

When Solas and Blackwall joined them with their horses, it seemed prudent to let Cassandra be the one to get them up to speed on their objective. While that happened, she went to one of her officers to coordinate a change of mounts near the halfway point to Caer Oswin, and then she went to collect Cassandra's gift--a new beard-axe, and a finely crafted tabard to adorn her armor--because she knew that, while the Seeker's mood at the moment was high and thunderous, at some point soon it would fall, and she would need something to cheer her. She packed away the gifts in her saddlebags while Cassandra wasn't looking.

At last they rode out into the snow and made their way out of the mountains.

The first night they camped, Cassandra stayed up late into the night praying furiously and cursing. Ixchel did her best to give the woman privacy and instead spent her time trying to keep Blackwall and Solas civil.

She had been going over a report on Cullen's red lyrium tracking operation and Blackwall had seen some of it over her shoulder. He harrumphed and sat heavily by the fire and muttered, "Those Red Templars...how could any soldier let that happen to them?"

Solas looked over from where he had been looking up at the stars; his expression was almost bored, but in the light of their fire Ixchel Ixchel could see a canny and almost antagonistic gleam reflected in his eyes. "They were Templars," he said.

Ixchel was very glad that Cassandra had taken up her pacing and meditation a little ways from camp. This was a conversation she wouldn't be able to refrain from.

"I suppose you might look down upon them, as a mage," said Blackwall tersely. He glanced at Ixchel, who shook her head. She was not adding to this, and he should know where she stood on the issue.

"It is not looking down upon them to recognize what they are," Solas said quietly. He raised a hand in a gesture of allowance. "Some, like Ser Barris, are thoughtful soldiers doing what they believe is right. The rest? Younger sons, petty criminals, thugs, bullies, orphans..."

"There is honor in finding a duty such as theirs," Blackwall insisted.

Solas scoffed. "Either they are accustomed to a life without choices, to following even the worst orders... Or they have learned to enjoy causing pain, to leap at any chance to swing a sword harder." He let his hand fall back to his chest. "Many mages are also no more than brutes, seeing nothing more than a larger ball of fire."

"In my life," Ixchel said, stirring uncomfortably in her seat, "I have seen how much easier it is for mortal men to relinquish moral authority to their superiors, and to cling to their orders as allowance to stray from their conscience, than it is for them to listen to their conscience and fight for what they truly believe in. The Chantry, the army, our system of governance with their lords and ladies and dukes and marquises, it's all built to encourage people to quell their personal conscience and place their trust in the morality of their leaders." She bit her lip, and she didn't look at Blackwall. "It's easier, isn't it, than being alone in one's righteousness?"

Blackwall was very quiet for a long time. Solas seemed content in his rhetorical victory, especially after Ixchel's contribution--which she still wasn't sure had been prudent of her. She felt quelled by her own words, and she thought ahead to her missions as Inquisitor and as a leader of many, one who would remake the world in her image...

"Do you think organizations are inherently corrupt, then?" Blackwall asked.

Solas saved her from answering immediately. "Given enough time, yes. To survive, an organization must devote resources to maintaining itself. Those resources inevitably accumulate until the original purpose, however pure, is all but lost."

"You make it sound like base survival. Like a mindless beast collecting a horde." Blackwall's face had become more reflective now, rather than dark, but Ixchel was listening with grim attention. 

"A beast," said Solas, "no matter how mindless, will die and give way to a successor. An organization is eternal. There are always corrupt men who hoard power for their own gain and there are always honorable men who hoard power to fight them."

Ixchel bowed her head. She was not there yet. The Inquisition was not there yet. "Then the inheritors must always be honorable men," she murmured, but she shook her head at herself.

"One can only hope, _lethallan_."

She sighed at the gentleness in his tone, though it made his words no less grave.

Finally, it seemed that Blackwall wanted to offer an olive branch. "For all your experience, Solas, you don't carry yourself like a soldier."

Ixchel looked up sharply in Solas's direction, for he had given such a dark chuckle in response. Yet he continued to stare up at the stars. "You should have seen me when I was younger. Hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight."

Blackwall allowed a thin smile. "Ah, youth." He glanced at Ixchel. "Well, youth in men, perhaps."

She shrugged. 

Solas's jaw tightened and relaxed as he contemplated such matters. At last, he continued solemnly: "It is a delicate balance for those who fight. If they lack sufficient passion, they never become truly skilled, and die or leave the life."

"But too much passion, and they end up dead," Blackwall agreed. "Or monsters better off dead."

Solas made a low sound in his chest, and then he released it in a pensive sigh. Ixchel wondered which he thought he was now; it was clear what he sometimes thought he had been, in times long past.

"Yes," he said. "It is a rare soldier who can fight without letting it define him."

"Does being a warrior not define us?" Blackwall asked, frowning. "I may be a Warden, and our dear Inquisitor may be the Herald of Andraste--but our life is battle. That is what we have dedicated ourselves to, even more than most who pick up the blade."

"I mean only that one must not become a war hawk, fighting for the sake of bloodlust. It is true that you strengthen your body to deliver and withstand punishment, and the muscles are an enjoyable side benefit. I only hope that you have chosen a path that is more than merely swinging a sword--blood is the cost, not the purpose."

Ixchel snorted despite herself. "You find the muscles enjoyable?"

"I meant that you enjoyed having them, presumably."

Blackwall guffawed. "Ah, right."

But then Solas tilted his head back to look at Ixchel upside down from where he lay. She could only see the barest sliver of his sly smile, as he added, in a low purr, "But yes... since you asked."

Blackwall dissolved into a coughing fit and had to stand and take some paces to regain his composure. Ixchel chose not to back down, and she held his gaze impassively. The heat between them only increased, tense, daring, a taut moment of challenge. At last, he seemed to think better of himself, and he looked away.

She couldn't decide how that made her feel--and that made her insides twist. 

-:-:-:-:-

A brittle silence fell over them as they continued on to Caer Oswin, and it lasted long into the night. Ixchel's dreams were cold and dark and just as quiet, but they were largely free of danger. She felt some sort of awareness on her periphery, and she wondered what spirits roamed the lands they camped upon, but she did not dare go exploring.

She practiced shaping the Fade within the walls she had crafted: from blank, empty tunnels she willed the refuge of Watcher's Reach: the roar of a waterfall in the distance, the fall of birds above her, and the murmur of refugees finding a safe haven in the caves. She sat cross-legged in the center of the ravine and looked up at the reaching statue above her head: she recognized now, beneath the erosion and the ages, that the Reacher was dressed as a Sentinel, with the short cloak and hood conforming to their spauldrons.

A noise she had not conjured startled her, and she looked up to see a wolf standing in the mouth of the ravine. It was a massive creature, and its pure white fur was thick around its neck like a mane. It was not the pale gray wolf with divine eyes that she was familiar with, and she considered it suspiciously for that reason. She did not know why a wolf who was not her ancient Elvhen god would appear to her in the Fade, except if its name were Regret.

It turned away from her, its tail low and its ears high, and it crouched playfully while looking over its shoulder. It chuffed at her, chirped, and she stood at last to approach.

But it took off down the ravine when she took her first step, and thus the chase began.

She willed herself to run, to fly, barefoot and nimble, through the Emerald Graves. She followed the streaming white flag of the wolf's tail, even when it leaped off high ridges and across deep chasms. The Fade warped around it; this strange creature shaped their path and lead her deliberately under the watchful guardians of the Emerald Knights. The wolf was not quite as large as the stone giants, but from its ruff to its tail to its large paws, it was their inheritor.

The wolf led her to Din'an Hanin and disappeared inside.

She walked more slowly now, reverently looking up at the statues of the knights in this place that was the end of their glory, and the end of the glory of their People. She had only been there once before, briefly, and had not had the time then to reflect upon it. But now she walked and she wondered and she tried to recall their names and the families named for them among the remaining Dalish. So many of them, too, had been lost. Such was glory's end.

The wolf lay watchful beneath the statue of Mythal, and she stopped a ways away to watch it. It watched her in turn. 

"Amarok," she said at last.

The great white wolf inclined its head.

Ixchel felt the Fade stir, and she looked around to find that the ruin was no longer ruined: gold tiles had been polished, torches lit, stone cracks mended anew. Beneath her feet, however, was a patch of bare earth. She felt rooted to the spot, connected by something deep within her to the fabric of this place. It was alive and growing all around her, growing from her.

She looked back at the wolf as the birdsong faded to a solemn hush. It whipped its tail, and it seemed to beckon, so she approached. She knelt before it and it nuzzled her with its mighty head. "Look," it said.

Behind her, where she had stood, a tree grew.

"You have named yourself and been named in kind," the voice said. "And I was chosen, and I have chosen. Rest easy, then, as your forebears once did."

The wolf assumed the pose of the Guardians, and its watchful eyes turned past the tree to the outer Fade. She lay between its paws as she often had amid the stone fascimiles in the Emerald Graves, and she felt its watchful presence wrap around her dreaming mind just as Cole's often did, and she knew that neither Nightmare nor Dread Wolf would find her here.


	38. Promise of Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with formatting or other errors! Written on and posted from my phone.
> 
> 11/10/20

There was no sign of Amarok when she woke, and she wondered how it was that her strange hold-beast had such mastery over the Fade that it could project across such a vast distance to her dreams. She was grateful for it, however, for she woke well-rested and unhaunted.

The road to Caer Oswin was dreary with rain, but when they at last reached the fortress, the sun broke through the clouds and cast the world in flame and gold. Ixchel looked up at the mighty walls and unhooked her greatsword from her back. "Are you ready, Seeker?" she asked. 

"I am filled with fear," she admitted, "and perhaps premature rage, at what we shall find."

Solas and Blackwall were attentive and grave behind them as they made their way up the path.

They entered through a lower guard post and took out several Venatori and Promisers. Once the rooms had been cleared, they stripped the bodies and searched for identification of hints to their agenda.

"Promisers," Cassandra spat. "Ugh... I should have known."

"What is it they promise?" Blackwall asked.

"The apocalypse," she replied through her teeth. "They are known as the Order of a Fiery Promise, but they are a cult. They have hounded us for centuries, for they believe they are the true Seekers--the only rightful ones. While we seek the Maker's will, they claim to have already found it. The only way to truly eradicate evil in their eyes is to end the world and let it be reborn into a paradise."

Solas raised his eyebrows, and it took all of Ixchel's strength to look away from him and focus on Cassandra.

"But what's the connection to Corypheus?" Cassandra muttered.

"He claims to have entered the Golden City. If he tears down the Veil as he promised, would that not be a chance for the world to be destroyed and reborn again?" Ixchel shook her head. "We'll find answers, Cassandra. Let's go."

They progressed into the courtyard and swiftly dealt with the Promisers within. They split up to search through barns and carts and supplies; Cassandra uncovered a cart laden with large, roughly cultivated spire of red lyrium, and she produced a note from the dead Promiser who has been guarding it.

Her hands shook as she read it over and then handed it to Ixchel.

"It's signed by the leader of the Venatori," Ixchel muttered. "I've never heard this name before. Magister Calpernia?"

"If they've been force-feeding the Seekers red lyrium..." Cassandra roared and punched a nearby tree. "This Calpernia will pay."

"Such resistance to red lyrium seems to be a bad omen," Solas said. "Corypheus has no leash to control them, as he does with the Templar Order. It is unlikely they would serve much purpose then, after that discovery."

"We will find them," Ixchel assured Cassandra. "One way or another, and yes, Calpernia and Corypheus and Samson--they'll each answer for what they've done."

They pressed onward into the castle's main keep--where they were immediately swarmed with a host of Promisers and Venatori. The battle was fraught, but by retreating into the entrance, Ixchel and Cassandra and Blackwall could funnel their enemies close--over fire mines--and manage the battle that way. Then they charged to take out the spellbinders in the wings.

At last, Ixchel opened a door and heard a mumbling voice pleading for mercy from Andraste and the Maker and anyone who could hear.

"Daniel!"

Cassandra fell to her knees at the man's side. His skin was pale, eyes sunken, and black veins stood stark on his face and neck. Ixchel recoiled despite herself and she remembered the gaunt face of Felix in the Blighted future--a ghoul, but not quite, after the Blight had taken its course. That's what this poor man looked like: a victim of the Blight, not a Red Templar.

"They fed me things... I feel it growing..." 

Ixchel clenched her fists. "Where is the Lord Seeker?" she demanded.

"Has he fallen to the Envy demon?" Cassandra asked. "Does he yet live?"

"No, the demon came later," Daniel rasped. "Lucius betrayed us, Cassandra. He sent us here, one by one, but he was here with them all along."

He clutched at Cassandra as she made to stand, her face white with fury. "Don't leave me like this," he sobbed. "Please."

Cassandra collapsed again down beside him, head bowed. "You should have come with me. You didn't believe in the war any more than I did."

His breath rattled in his throat. "I thought the Lord Seeker could be swayed," he said bitterly. "I had to try."

He held her hand. "I'm sorry, Cassandra."

Ixchel moved away to hide them their privacy. Solas and Blackwall came with her in silence.

"He was my apprentice," Cassandra said in a hoarse voice from behind them when she was done. "I have never known a finer young man."

She took a steadying breath.

"Now we find the Lord Seeker."

-:-:-:-:-

"Ah, Inquisitor," Lord Seeker Lucius purred. Ixchel bodily recoiled at the sight and sound. Envy had been a fastidious observer, she realized ruefully, for it had so thoroughly adopted the Lord Seeker's manner, voice, and gait--even in its demon form, and even in the prison it had made within her mind. It was true that the Envy demon hadn't particularly hurt her, but that day still left a sharp and bitter pain deep in her bones.

"How ironic, that we, the Seekers of Truth, were once the original Inquisition," Lucius purred. "Oh yes, we fought to restore order in a time of madness long ago, as you do now. And we became proud. We sought to remake the world--to make it better. But what did we create? The Chantry. The Circles of Magi. A war that will see no end."

"How ironic, that the Seekers of Truth have forgotten the truth of their order," she said coolly in reply. She leaned on her greatsword. "You were led by an elf. A mage of Halamshiral. When he fell, you abandoned him and his legacy. You let yourselves be leashed to an emperor and served his bidding, not your Maker's."

Lucius was not thrown so much as puzzled as he regarded her. "We Seekers are indeed a twisted abomination," he said, at least agreeing on that point. "We created a decaying world and fought to preserve it even as it crumbled. I had to stop us."

"So you killed them all?" Cassandra demanded raggedly.

"I had no other choice," Lucius replied. "Ah, but you don't believe me? See for yourself."

He stepped forward, a heavy tome outstretched for Cassandra.

"What you've _done_ \--! You've sided with a monster!"

"I know what Corypheus has done with the Templars. It is only another sign of what we have wrought. I have seen the future! The world will end so we can start anew, a pure beginning!"

Cassandra's axe suddenly sprouted in his chest, embedded deep in his plate armor and ribs. The sickening crunch of it, the sudden gasp he released upon its impact, made Ixchel flinch.

Lucius staggered, then fell to his knees.

The fight that ensued was hardly one for the history books. Ixchel returned to Cassandra's side and picked up the book of the Seekers. "He can't have destroyed every single one of you," she offered softly.

Cassandra did not look up from where she knelt on the ground. "So many good people...their lives forfeit...for what?" She sighed.

Ixchel held out a hand and helped Cassandra stand. She pressed the book into her arms. "For the follies of man," she agreed mournfully.

"Is...is what you said to the Lord Seeker true?" Cassandra asked.

Ixchel nodded. "I came across documents that predate the Second Blight...Ameridan was a friend of the Emperor, who had asked him to lead the Seekers as a mage as a show of good will as well as a tempering voice among the Templars. He became Inquisitor as well, and he served the Emperor loyally, believing in the Maker's will. But after Ameridan fell, subsequent emperors grew intolerant of dissent. They viewed their mandate to rule as a divine one, and they shaped the Chantry's interpretation of the Chant of Light in order to suite their war mongering... So formed the Circles, and so began the Exalted March on the Dales, and so forgot the Seekers whose will they served."

Cassandra's eyes dropped to the ground. "So the Promisers were right. We lost sight of the Maker's will long ago."

Ixchel shook her head. "Why are you here, Cassandra, if not that you recognized you were being asked to go against the Maker's will--and you refused?" She patted the book again. "If you can do such a thing, then you must believe that others could, as well. Daniel?"

Cassandra clasped the book more tightly to her. "I...have much to consider, Ixchel," she said quietly.

Ixchel nodded, and she let Cassandra have her silence. She joined Blackwall and Solas in gathering the bodies for burning.

"I guess that makes your point for you, doesn't it, Solas?" Blackwall murmured.

"There will always be honorable men," Solas replied. "Today's events only highlight the need to seek them out and keep them close." He did not look up from his work as he spoke, and he did not pause as he finished: "Keep them close to sustain them, encourage them--and watch them. But who watches the watchers?"

Ixchel considered this as she helped him arrange the last body on a pyre. She stared into the flames, and all she could think of were the tall trees of the Emerald Graves, whispering and watching the Watcher until, one day, his vigil might end.

-:-:-:-:-

Cassandra pored over the Lord Seeker's book every night in silence. Ixchel had been present while Cassandra read other books, where usually there were exclamations and gesticulations and a running, if broken, commentary. But Cassandra did not give voice to her thoughts as she read the book of secrets, and her face did not betray them either.

She finished just a day before they reached Skyhold.

As Solas and Blackwall set up wards and traps around their camp, Cassandra closed the book with a heavy thud and looked at Ixchel from across the fire. Her lips were thin and white, and her cheeks were gaunt, but her eyes were fierce and shining.

"It is down to me, then," she said. "All these secrets lie in my hands. I know the truth."

"A heavy burden," Ixchel replied softly.

"I thought to rebuild the Seekers once victory was ours. Now I'm not certain it deserves to be rebuilt at all..." Cassandra put her head in her hands briefly, then looked up again, grief and exhaustion written in to the lines of her face. "You, Solas... You are right. At some point power becomes its own master. We cast aside ideals in favor of expediency...atrocities committed in the name of the people... We acted not to serve, but to survive. And that is _not_ the Maker's work."

Ixchel was careful not to let her thoughts, or her own doubts, show on her own face. Cassandra searched across the fire with her eyes, and then she sat up and flattened her hands on the book of secrets. "The...the Rite of Tranquility," she began. "I always thought it a necessary evil, one that should only be used on those who cannot control their abilities... I believed that its existence was a sign of the Maker's will: that magic must serve, but not control us. That those who were made Tranquil were examples of this in action. But that has not always been the case."

Ixchel's stomach twisted as she thought of the oculara, of the dreamy, soulless voices of Tranquil she knew. She remained silent as Cassandra brought this truth back into the world. 

"What finally united the Mage rebellion was the discovery that the Rite could be reversed. The Lord Seeker had covered it up. After what happened in Kirkwall, it was dangerous knowledge. But it appears we've always known how to reverse the right from the beginning." She nodded grimly at Ixchel. "That does not seem to surprise you."

Ixchel cracked her knuckles. "So much of what I see in the Chantry, the Circles, the Templar, is not about order or righteousness. It is about control, and power, and pain. This is but another tool to exert control, to protect power, to sow pain."

"And we created it," Cassandra said, her voice so thin it was hardly audible over the crackle of the fire. "It is even part of our initiation: to become a Seeker I spent months in a vigil, emptying myself of all emotion. I was made Tranquil and I didn't even know it. But my vigil attracted a Spirit of Faith who broke the Tranquility. It gave me by abilities... Not the Maker."

Ixchel stared into the fire and not at the Seeker beyond them.

"Will this happen to us, Inquisitor? Will we repeat history?"

"We will no longer be the Inquisition, if we abandon the ideals of our founding," Ixchel said. "Those who follow, those who care, they'll know that truth. And because our ideals are so lofty, the cost of abandoning them is that much higher... Or so I must believe."

The women were quiet again.

"I've never seen you so shaken," Ixchel said at last.

"I don't believe I ever have been before... Not like this." Cassandra shook her head. "But... Perhaps we Seekers lost our way because we grew _too_ certain. Perhaps doubt is not such a bad thing."

Ixchel smiled a little, just the corner of her mouth. "It's a sign of conscience," she agreed. "If you rely on others to filter the truth, you walk blindly into traps. If you constantly examine yourself, retain the humility to doubt, to question... It is a painful road, but it is an honest one."

"I was going to ask what you thought I should do," Cassandra admitted. 

"I can't tell you that. You're right. But for what it's worth, Cassandra? I trust you. I trust your heart." She held a hand to her breast and held Cassandra's gaze intently. "I have faith in you, and you are one of the people who give me the most hope for the future."

"I could not have done this, any of this, on my own." Cassandra smiled at her in return, watery but true. "Thank you, Ixchel. I...will do my best to make sure your faith is not misplaced."

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel was surprised when Solas returned to the camp and Cassandra asked, "Solas, what do you believe in?"

She was less surprised that Solas had an immediate answer. "Cause and effect," he said simply. "Wisdom as its own reward, and the inherent right of all free willed people to exist."

Cassandra was taken aback. "That is not exactly what I meant."

Solas exhaled slowly and folded himself down on the ground between the Seeker and the Inquisitor. "I know. I believe the elven gods existed, as did the old gods of Tevinter. But I do not think any of them were gods, unless you expand the definition of the word to the point of absurdity." He spread his elegant hands in a gesture of open welcome. "I appreciate the idea of your Maker, a god that does not need to prove his power. I wish more such gods felt the same."

Cassandra gazed upon him with more open grief. "What gives you hope, then, Solas?"

Solas offered her a gentle smile, one that Ixchel could not help but treasuring. Then, he spoke, and his words were to Ixchel as much as they were to Cassandra. "I have _people_ , Seeker. The greatest triumphs and tragedies this world has known can all be traced to people."

He did not turn his gaze upon Ixchel where she watched him, but with all her heart she wished him to know that she saw him, that she heard him. That all of her unending, hopeless, pointless love for him had been waiting for that moment--not even for her own sake. Not even for the _world's_. But for his own sake, she had hardly dared to hope he might ever say such a thing with such easy conviction. She hoped he truly did believe himself.

"How are you feeling, Seeker?" he asked her in turn.

"How do you expect I might feel?" Her face twisted, and she seemed on the verge of spitting. But she swallowed and continued quietly. "Most of my life was dedicated to the Order. I did so much I believed was good in their name."

"Now that you know them corrupt, you must determine which parts of yourself to discard and which to keep."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "I assume you have advice?"

"I would hardly presume. In our travels, I have been impressed by your honesty and your faith. It is a difficult path, Seeker, but if anyone can walk it honorably, you can."

Cassandra clenched her fists suddenly. "Solas, my abilities as a Seeker... They came to me after a long vigil--one which I now know made me Tranquil, then attracted a Spirit of Faith to break it. They said my abilities were a gift from the Maker, a reward for my faith and dedication. But it was a trick, wasn't it? Is it my faith, or the faith of that...spirit...?"

Solas's eyebrows rose higher and higher as she spoke, and he shook his head vehemently when she trailed off, desperate and broken. "No, _no,_ Seeker. Do you know how rare Spirits of Faith are? How difficult it is to draw them to this world? You should be proud, having accomplished something so remarkable, not ashamed it was not what you thought."

Her eyes shone, and even at a distance Ixchel could see the Seeker tremble. "Thank you, Solas," Cassandra said. "That... does make me feel better."

Solas reached out a hand and laid it on the ground, but the gesture of comfort and solidarity remained. "Your faith does you credit, Cassandra. I hope your Maker is worthy."

"Told you so," Ixchel said gently. Her own throat was tight, and her own eyes burned with her own tears. When she looked at Cassandra, her eyes were not clouded with the doubts she felt about her own path, or guilt over the painful choices of her last life. Rather, all she saw was a woman she loved, a woman who hurt--a woman she could help.

Cassandra responded with a watery chuckle. "I am very lucky," she told them. "I am grateful to have met you both on this journey."


	39. Devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I get for writing on my phone and not having a beta; I've rewritten Ixchel's speech to Alexius since having posted this. Sorry about that! It's definitely easier to edit and review on my computer lol
> 
> 11/10/20

When Ixchel arrived in Skyhold, she could tell that Alexius had arrived ahead of her. She could always feel it when there was a judgement awaiting her, for even the best of mortal hearts went aflutter at the thought of an execution. It set her teeth on edge to think of it, so she did her best not to. After washing the road from her hair, she summoned her war council, and she began by putting a moratorium on judgements.

There were more pressing matters at hand as news came out of Sahrnia, out of the Graves, and out of the Exalted Plains. Handling it all took several hours, after which point she wanted nothing more than a stiff drink.

She invited her advisors, but each declined. She did not feel like seeking out Dorian and dealing with the fraught topic of the Magister in her dungeon, so she went straight to the tavern on her own.

Bull and Varric were already there. It wasn't late enough for the usual riot, and Varric was writing fastidiously at the bar with a tankard beside him. Bull held his own flagon loosely on his knee as he observed the room, and he raised it when Ixchel entered. Then he gestured above them, at the next floor.

She wandered upstairs as indicated and immediately caught sight of a very familiar pair of boots.

Ixchel bounded up the last few steps and used the bannister to swing around.

"Oh, I-Inquisitor!" Sutherland's mouth and hands seemed to move against him, clumsy despite his eagerness. He nearly knocked over the bench he was sitting on. "Sutherland, Your Worship!"

"Yes, you're the one who warned us of those bandits," she said warmly. She extended her hand and took his firmly. "I see the quartermaster has outfitted you and your partner as I instructed!"

Since he seemed too flustered to invite her to sit, she sat in what she presumed was Voth's usual seat. Sutherland followed quickly. "Ah, y-yeah. Got some training to beat those bandits and then me and Voth went out to the Storm Coast to help with the darkspawn tunnels! We put your flag in the center of their bloody laid and held it!" He laid his hands flat on the table, utterly solemn all at once. "Thank you for trusting me, Your Worship. Commander Cullen said it was your personal recommendation all along."

She grinned at him. "Of course, Sutherland. I know a good heart and a good sword when I see them."

His beaming smile was so familiar to her, and she was grateful to see it once again. His face brightened even further. "This is Voth, Your Worship. He doesn't speak, but he's grateful too. And this is Shayd. She's new, but trust me, she's the _best_."

"You're growing a fine adventuring crew here," she observed.

" _Your_ crew, Inquisitor," Sutherland corrected. "I'll be paying you back for your trust. If I can."

"Just keep up the good work," she told them all.

"We'll be heading out soon as an escort for Lady Montilyet. Then, Commander Cullen has given us the okay to help the Mining Caste from Orzammar. They want us to find some of their missing workers." He laughed a little. "They asked for us specifically. What'd they say, Shayd?"

"Said we're the ones who proved we ain't all sky mad," the young rogue replied, laughter in her voice as well.

"Well, take care then. I'm confident in the three of you to represent us well, and your skills have already been proven." She saluted them. "I'll leave you to relax a little before you set off."

They cheered and saluted her in return, none more enthusiastically then Sutherland. Ixchel couldn't keep the grin off her face as she returned downstairs to Bull.

"I know every soldier under my command," he said. "More than ever, you don't have that luxury. But a few faces might help. Especially the ones who identify so strongly with what you're trying to accomplish here."

Ixchel waved to the bar, where Varric had just noticed her. He signaled to the bartender to fetch another drink.

"I know more than you might expect," she told Bull. "It's important to me. If they're going to identify with the Inquisition, and with me, then I should know what they think that is."

Bull raised his drink to her. "You've got a good army coming along. And they've got a good leader. I think they know that, but don't let them forget it."

She took a seat on a barrel beside him and accepted the drink Varric brought her. 

"Welcome back, Sunshine," he said as the three of them clanked their mugs together. "Did you want to take over Ferelden? I think we might be able to conquer it just by looking east."

She snorted. "I'm damn proud of us," she admitted. "But, Varric," she said, grimacing a little as the drink burned her throat. "I happen to know you haven't made up with Cassandra. After what we found out there... I think you really should make a peace offering."

He blanched.

"Don't worry. I happen to know exactly what you could give her--and I don't think it's going to be anything particularly humiliating on your part."

"Oh yeah?" he asked skeptically.

"The next issue of _Swords and Shields."_ Ixchel raised her eyebrows right back at him as he stared at her in disbelief. She took another drink. "Yeah."

"I must have heard that wrong. It sounded like you just said that Cassandra read my books."

Bull chuckled. "She's a pretty big fan, in fact."

Ixchel glanced at him, then chuckled. "Why am I even surprised, Ben-Hassrath."

He winked.

Varric shook his head. "Are we talking about the same Seeker?" he asked. "Tall, scowling, likes stabbing things? And the _romance_ serial? Last issue barely sold enough to pay for the ink!"

"And she's read it so many times her copy fell apart," she informed the dwarf. "You framed the dear Knight-Captain and left it on a cliffhanger. Or something."

Varric gave her a concerned look, and she held up a hand. "I swear I've only heard it from her. When do _I_ have time to read?"

"So...you want me to finish writing the latest issue of my worst serial for Cassandra." He snorted and gazed down into his drink. "That's such a terrible idea, I have to do it. And hey. If it'll raise her spirits, all the better. Give me a few days and I'll have a draft ready."

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel wandered down to the rotunda late that evening and found Solas at work on his frescoes. Lately, he had been absorbed in research, and so his progress had slowed. But in just the few hours since their return, he had completed the panel of the formation of the Inquisiton and applied wet plaster to the panel that pertained to Redcliffe. He had shifted his scaffolding over to begin work at the top, on the sky.

Up on his high perch, she could not tell if he has noticed her arrival. She tried not to interrupt as she went over to his sofa and made herself comfortable to watch.

The wolf pelt she had given him as part of his new robes was draped across the arm of the sofa, and she drew if across her lap to keep her warm and to give her hands something to stroke while she observed him. The movement seemed to catch his attention, but he hardly paused for more than a moment.

"I wonder," he said, in such an even and conversational tone that she almost did not hear him at such a distance, "if I am drawn to you only in the same way that all the others are."

He was careful not to let his eyes fall to her at all, even as be bent to mix another color.

" _Fenedhis_ ," she muttered. Could she hide under this pelt...?

"My journeys have given me the privilege to witness many remarkable figures in the history of the world, and the loyalty they inspired in their followers. Yet only now do I see that I was wrong."

He fell silent for a long moment, and he considered the shade of green he had just applied. She had learned by now that the colors would change upon drying and that only because of his vast experience could he discern what the true shades would be before he applied them. A master of the craft, go be sure.

Seemingly satisfied, he continued to paint the swathe of sky. "I said that fear inspired the worship of mortals as gods. But perhaps, in rare cases, it is love instead."

Ixchel was frozen as he spoke, and in the wake of his words she was afraid to even breathe. How could he be so far away, how could he not even look upon her, and make her feel so _trapped?_

"Not their love for their gods--but their gods' love for them. The belief that their gods believe in them just as much as they believe in return." The soft bristles of his brush rasped against the plaster, and the softness of his breath came in time with each slow, deliberate stroke. "How Andrastians are so certain of the Maker's love, I do not know. I have not seen evidence. But, Ixchel, you have shown such faith--acted with so much love for your people...it is no _wonder_ you inspire such devotion."

The Inquisitor swallowed a lump in her throat.

"Solas," she said softly. "You're scaring me."

He still did not stop his work. His chin moved in her direction, an almost-turn, but he kept his eyes forward on his work. "I should," he said. His voice was low and utterly serious.

She did not have it within her to deny him, to protest. After all, she knew he was right.

 _I love you anyway,_ she thought with such strength it might manifest in the air between them--but it did not. _I love you. Is it_ your _devotion I have won? Will you stay?_

She did not lend voice to such thoughts. But she did not flee, either.

He continued his work in silence, and she watched him unflinchingly as he painted the Blighted future on the wall.

-:-:-:-:-

When Ixchel came up to her rooms and found Amarok there, lying at her bedside, she was tipsy enough to let decorum slip; she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his ruff. He was just as soft and warm as he was in her dreams, and it filled her with such comfort and joy she almost wept. He was not quite so large as he was in the Fade, but he was already as large as a mundane alpha wolf. 

She could not hear him here, in the material world. But when Cole peered up from below the other side of her bed, she laughed and beckoned him over to join their growing pile of warmth.

Cole rolled over the wolf's back and lay there, hardly a weight to him. The wolf nuzzled Ixchel and then rolled on to its side, releasing a wave of body heat that engulfed her. She curled there, reached for Cole with one hand.

"Bare-faced but free, frolicking fighting, fierce," Cole said, smiling up at the ceiling. "He wants to give wisdom, not orders."

Ixchel's fingers curled in Cole's thin, silky hair, and she was surprised at his warmth. "Who?"

He glanced at her with wide eyes. "Solas, of course."

She continued to stroke his hair while she pondered what Cole had just revealed to her.

"You make him feel like he did then," Cole said, "mostly in good ways. But even in the moments that hurt, you make him hope."

Ixchel buried her face in Amarok's shoulder, still without ceasing her gentle touch along Cole's scalp. "Thank you, Cole."

"I figured out how to help," he said breathlessly, beaming. "You were right, Amarok."

The wolf rumbled deep in its barrel chest.

"Cole, what _is_ Amarok?"

"Amarok is...Amarok." Cole floundered a bit as though he did not know what Ixchel had just asked him. "He was chosen, and he chose you."

Amarok made the same sound again, as though pleased that he had Ixchel stumped.

"Well, the both of you are welcome to stay," she said into his fur. "I'm going to sleep."

"Of course we'll stay. And we'll keep you safe."

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel wasn't present when Varric gave Cassandra the book, which she regretted terribly, but she was glad that the dwarf escaped unscathed. She kept herself busy around Skyhold, running errands, preempting certain events and setting wheels in motion to anticipate others.

At last, she began preparations to head west. Skyhold was abustle, for she was not going to be traveling with a small entourage this time. Harding had already gone on ahead to the Emerald Graves to try and offer some relief to the refugees plagued by the Freemen of the Dales, but she had asked for a few carts of necessary supplies and medicine for them. Ixchel would lead a small caravan, with Solas, Cassandra, and Cole, while Bull, Blackwall and Dorian followed at the tail end with a second wave after they'd secured the roads.

But before she could leave, there were two remaining matters to attend to. Well, one that she had planned for, and one that had made itself known in the middle of it.

"You recall Gereon Alexius of Tevinter."

Ixchel sat upon her Chasind-style throne and watched as her soldiers brought in the chastened Magister. 

"Ferelden has given him to us for judgement, as acknowledgement of your aid. The formal charges are heretical magicks, attempted assassination, and attempted enslavement."

Alexius stood before her, head bowed and chains rattling heavily as he settled into a defeated stance.

"Tevinter has disowned him and stripped him of his rank. You may judge the former Magister as you please."

Ixchel sat straight and proud on her throne. She did not look around at the gathered onlookers who tittered and held their breaths. She did not even look at Josephine. Dorian stood by, close and watchful and full of apprehension like the rest, but she kept her gaze firmly on Alexius.

"Your son is dead, and I imagine you do not care so much for your fate," she said quietly. "But I care for Felix's memory, and his memory of you."

She steepled her fingers in front of her and raised her voice. "This man once plotted for a brighter future for his home nation: one free of blood magic, of political systems designed to swaddle the privileged few and not the enslaved masses. One free of abject cruelty. He raised his son to dream of such a land. Alexius was a man who wished to shape the world, so can we blame him, for trying to do exactly that, in order to save his son from the Blight? I cannot blame such a great love. But I am reminded of the great suffering that had followed in its wake."

Ixchel looked out now at the Inquisition. "Let us all remember that even in our most shining aspirations, there may be even deeper shadows." She raised one hand to gesture at Alexius. "No one goal is so good as to let us forget our responsibility to the mortal lives we touch along the way. Be they Mage or not, human or elf, mortal or spirit--we must do good by all of them. A better world for one individual, or even one nation, that is not a better world for all cannot be our goal! Let me remind you, then, Alexius, of the inherent worth of every such being. You will spend your days working alongside our Tranquil Mages, researching theoretical magicks and helping us find ways to better the world. You will serve in Felix's memory, and I hope you find some comfort in working alongside such honest folk for such honest a purpose--if not now, then someday."

She lowered her hand, having spoken with utter finality. Her soldiers began taking the silent magister away. 

And then another group of soldiers shouldered their way through the crowd, with a giant of a man dragged between them. An Avvar chieftain, dressed in full ceremonial war paint, was thrown before her.

"This man was...attacking...the building," a soldier said almost disbelievingly. "With a _goat."_

Ixchel stood to gain some height over the chieftain. "Raise your head, fearsome one. You have smacked my holding with goat's blood, as is your way. What offense of mine have you repaid with blood?"

The man chuckled. "So it is true," he rumbled. "You are familiar with our customs. Well, you killed my idiot son. No foul: a redheaded mother guarantees a brat. I repaid blood with blood, and now our fued is settled."

"I believe it is," she agreed. "What is your name?"

"Movran the Under."

"Then, Chief Movran, our debt is settled. Should you see fit, I believe we would do you the favor of sending you and your clan, with as many weapons as you can carry, to Tevinter. Happy hunting."

He roared with laughter, and she gestured for him to be released. 

"Happy hunting indeed, lowlander." He smirked at her from beneath his helm. "The Lady watches over you here, in this place of the skies."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fenedhis - wolf dick


	40. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's cold here and I wanted some warm fuzzy feelings in this chapter. So have an assortment!
> 
> / written and posted from my phone, sorry for the typos!
> 
> 11/11/20

Ixchel was far too pleased with herself to see her companions wearing the gifts she had gotten them.

Cassandra led the caravan on her white horse, and the picture of her in her fine armor, adorned with the new vibrant tabard would inspire even the proudest of Chevaliers to bow to her. It was just what Cassandra needed to bolster her confidence after all that had transpired, though she had been too humbled and shaken at the time to thank Ixchel properly. Ixchel didn't mind.

Solas wore the robes she had made for him over his armor, which she noticed he had replaced on his own. Instead of the light armor favored by the Inquisiton mages and Dorian and Vivienne, he had found or somehow obtained something sturdier, as that a warrior might select. He wore a heavy gorget that, if she had to guess from color alone, was made of paragon's luster, and a thick leather cuirass that seemed like wyvern skin. She was highly suspicious of its origin, and she was also suspicious of what had prompted a shift in his needs that he would seek such armor out. She couldn't rightly question him, however, because they _were_ going into territory where they knew smugglers, deserters, and giants roamed, among other dangers. And besides...paired with the thick vest and overcoat she had made him, he looked too good.

Cole's gift had been more subtle. She had outfitted him in better armor, of course, for spirit though he was he bled and broke the same as the rest of them. But she had fashioned him a collection of comfort items as his formal gift: more sachets of nice-smelling herbs; a book in which she had pressed flowers, with space for more should be feel so inclined; a brass spyglass so he could observe people from afar rather than appearing beside them and startling them (an especially dangerous habit with Templars about). He rode behind her in the saddle, light as ever, and she could smell the herbs on him and wondered if he kept them in his pockets. The thought warmed her.

Ixchel had given Blackwall his gift before she set out, because he was likely to need it on the way. It had been too heavy to bring with them on their hurries trip to Caer Oswin, and she'd needed Bull's help carrying the full set from the Undercroft to the stables where Blackwall had taken residence. For she had fashioned him armor in the style of the Wardens' finest warriors: silverite mail and paragon's luster plate armor, with the thickest bear hide rubbed to a velvet texture beneath river stones. Ixchel had worked closely with Harrit to make the heraldry as artisanal as possible, but she had added the sword of the Inquisiton behind the griffon, for Blackwall was simultaneously a member of both and a member of neither. Yet his contributions could not be ignored, and one day she hoped to thank him openly. For now, she smiled at his misty-eyed thanks and told him to put it to use.

For her own part, she had not invested nearly as much time into upgrading her armor. She was satisfied with the thick mail and lightweight plates that she had already cobbled together from vanquished enemies and hidden caches across Ferelden. She had spent more of her time working with Vivienne and Vivienne's seamstress, trying to incorporate subtle protections beneath the finery she would wear to the Winter Palace. But on her last day in Skyhold, Vivienne had approached Ixchel with a small bundle in her arms.

"It would be irresponsible of me to let you go vanquishing Chevaliers and rounding up bipartisan support between the warring lions without heraldry of your own," the Enchanter had said loftily. She had watched Ixchel unfold the black and gold quilted gambeson, and then the blood red slash of fabric that had been folded carefully beneath the gambeson. Vivienne gestured to the reinforced rivets at the corners. "Afix this to your cuirass and none shall mistake you for anyone but yourself, my dear Inquisitor," she directed. "When you have crafted your Champion's standard, this can be layered with it or affixed to your back, or to a flag."

Ixchel felt, atop her mighty steed, that all she needed to complete the picture was a crown. She did not desire one in the slightest, but she held her head up proudly as she rode alongside Cassandra and led her Inquisiton onward to the Emerald Graves.

-:-:-:-:-

Harding did not call out to Ixchel's party as they rode up to camp, but instead waited for Ixchel to approach. Indeed, no one spoke above a murmur here, as though each sensed the solemn pall that hung over the Graves.

"Good to see you again, Inquisitor," Harding said, keeping her voice low. "The scouts have marked the location of a number of Fade rifts all over the forest, as well as some suspected smuggling activity--and some giant stomping grounds, of course. We've also located Fairbanks for you, and he'd like to speak to you in person at Watcher's Reach, a canyon not far from here."

"Anything else about the area?"

"They say a tree grows here for every knight of Halamshiral who fell in defense of the Dales. Makes you sad," Lace said. Then she caught herself. "Of course, you know this. I'm...I'm sorry, Inquisitor. I spoke thoughtlessly."

Ixchel shook her head. "It's alright, Lace." She gestured slowly around at the canopy above them. "I believe they were planted whenever a knight swore their vows to the Dales. These are their promises: _we are the last Elvhen, and never again shall we submit._ They remain unbowed and unbroken even by the passage of the centuries."

"That's...still sad, but beautiful, too," Harding said softly.

Ixchel gave her a small smile. "We'll set out to find Fairbanks immediately."

"I'd recommend you send for the supplies _after_ you've reached the Reach," Lace warned. "We've had a lot of trouble from the Freemen hijacking our wagons en route."

"Thanks for the warning." Ixchel nodded at Lace and gestured for her companions to gather themselves quickly.

"The Dales have seen so much conflict," Cassandra remarked softly as they regrouped beneath the watchful gaze of a Knight's Guardian. "And yet, they're still beautiful."

"Our people built a life here. It must have been a sight to see," Solas added.

"If you listen, you can hear it all reaching for the sun," said Cole, and they all fell silent as though to listen for what he had heard. Ixchel wondered if that was it, or if the Veil was simply so thin here that each of them could almost-hear the Spirits trying to speak to them.

She led them out of the camp and began to wander along the road. She truly did not know her way around the Graves very well and suspected that she was going to lead them unawares into many a Freemen or Templar camp, but she followed the scouts' map as best she could. 

"Here to help Fairbanks? He's a dead man! He and his crew!"

Ixchel ducked under an arrow and then was thrown down by a bull-rushed Orlesian tower shield. The charging knight ran right over a fire mine for the insult, and Cassandra heaved Ixchel to her feet in the moment's pause that earned them. She gripped her greatsword tight and leaped into the fray alongside Cole. 

In the aftermath, Solas looked down at the bodies of the Freemen with disdain. "It's always remarkable that some will take advantage of chaos to further their own cause."

"What manner of knight do they believe they are?" Cassandra agreed, and glowered down at her bloodied blade. Ixchel simply shook her head and moved on. There was nothing remarkable about such agents--not to her. 

At last they reached the canyon and approached the spiked barricades of Fairbanks' outpost. She waited for a guard to address her before she attempted to enter.

"Fairbanks is expecting you in the camp," one called out. "Watch yourself. I'd like to trust you, but you can't trust anyone in these times."

She nodded and entered.

"It is an honor to meet the Herald of Andraste," a man said, approaching her out of a cave she knew held most of the refugees. She extended her hand and shook his. "As much as I admire you, however, I did not reach out to the Inquisition just for this. As my missive stated, we can help each other."

"Yes, I believe we can, Fairbanks."

"You have encountered the Freemen--aggressive bastards, no? They killed a dozen of my people, and we cannot match their strength. Why should you care about this? Because the Freemen are colluding with your enemy."

"I care because it's wrong of them to prey upon civilians and refugees," Ixchel said firmly. "If you know where their bases are, we'll route them."

"Good. If you remove the Freemen, then everything I know about the Dales is yours." 

She consulted him about her map and be marked the locations of their most recent activity.

"This place, this is where the Red Templars go with their carts. Here is where some of our people, including the herbalist, were last seen..."

Before she left the refugee camp, she wandered through it with her companions. She introduced herself to the various families and inquired as to their needs and concerns. She noticed the familiar tingle of Elvhen magic and with Solas's help uncovered a veilfire glyph for study.

"Even with thousands of gallons of water falling on it for centuries, the wolf statue remains intact," Cassandra observed of the falls. "Magic, perhaps?"

"Ancient magicks wove together with the fabric of the universe and created beautiful harmonies that could last thousands of years," Solas replied. "Perhaps some of that knowledge survived to the foundation of the Dales."

Ixchel sighed. "Certainly, little of it survived the Exalted March that followed."

They departed and made their way in the direction of an old veridium mine Fairbanks had marked and where Ixchel vaguely recalled that either lyrium or slaves were being stored. Upon their arrival, she found that it housed both, in fact, under the auspice of a brutal Chevalier deserter named Sister Costeau. The woman shouted something about getting the rats to the Venatori, but neither she nor her men lived long enough for anything to come of it.

Ixchel broke the lock of the makeshift prison with her hands and freed the herbalist and companions. "The road directly to Fairbanks is clear," she warned them. "Don't stray."

"As you say, Your Worship!"

Solas destroyed the red lyrium shipment, and she scoured the place for clues. 

"They were going to send these people to mines at Suledin," she said, handing papers over to Cassandra.

"That's the name of a ruin in Emprise du Lion," the Seeker noted. "We should make haste, or at least send a presence there ahead of us."

"Let's route these Freemen and then send word to Leliana," she replied. "Until the roads are safe, we can't expect our people to travel at all."

They had disrupted several Freemen camps by nightfall, as well as closing twice as many rifts. Yet Ixchel still was not satisfied with their progress, and in the darkness she and Cole scouted out a wooden fort that had been occupied by a mixed force of Freemen and Templars. When she returned to their own camp, Cassandra had already retired to the tent she shared with Ixchel, and Solas was up on watch.

She sat beside him and began undoing the buckles of her armor. "Did you know that most Dalish are named after Emerald Knights?" she asked him.

He shook his head slowly, and she paused in her work, surprised. "The vow of the Dales is...the vow of the Dales. The elves of Halamshiral were perhaps the last with any connection to the Elvhen, if what you said about the magic here is true. The last Emerald Knights scattered to the winds to ensure that whatever they carried with them in their blood and in their souls would not be lost to Orlais with everything else." She looked down and resumed taking off her gauntlets. "Ralaferin, Mahariel, Talas... These are names you'll find here, beneath the mightiest trees. Their names, their promises, and our promises, are all that remain of the Elvhen."

Solas was quiet as she continued to remove her armor. She worked slowy and tried to keep from making much noise both out of respect for Cassandra's sleep as well as out of an abundance of caution in the night. She had only just finished removing the last of her plate armor when Solas spoke.

"And there is promise in you, isn't there." His voice was thoughtful, but what those thoughts were, he did not share them with her.

"Promises and faith," she murmured, and they sat in meditative silence until it was time to wake Cassandra and Cole for their watches.

-:-:-:-:-

The next day they stormed the Freemen's holding at the fort and thoroughly routed their forces--even the (probably) giant-blooded Chevalier who led the group camped there. Ixchel's four-man-siege took nearly all day, and by the end of it Ixchel sat in a blood-soaked hut and struggled to even think of standing. They had destroyed some of the red lyrium that had been hoarded within its walls, but she could still hear the song of just as much that remained.

"I'll bring them to it," Cole assured her. "We'll destroy all of it, don't worry!"

And so they did. As she recovered amid the corpses, she could hear the sickly song dwindle to nothing. When her companions returned, she took Cassandra's hand and heaved herself to her feet.

"Let's go back to the forward camp and have them occupy this place," she said. "And that's about all I can handle for today, I think. 

She was expecting to be so exhausted as to have a dreamless sleep, but she was surprised to find that not only did she lucidly dream--she was not alone, either.

For accompanying Amarok was another wolf.

Ixchel couldn't help her feeling of utter betrayal at Amarok's presumptuous allowance. She was penned in on all sides by wolves: the Knight's Guardian perched cool and tall behind her back, Amarok to her left, and Solas to her right. The three-way mirror of these wolves, each one shade more pale than the other, would have been almost amusing if she were not nearly infuriated by it.

"Hush, Champion," Amarok said reprovingly. "None of us alone are strong enough to protect you this night." His ears flattened at the admission, and his growl reverberated around her in the fabric of the Fade. "The Elder One's servants would chase you like the hounds of the Dales. We cannot let them find you."

The white wolf sprang to his feet in a motion so fluid that he seemed as though he were liquid pouring across rocks and reforming at the bottom. As Amarok threw back his head to unleash a howl that might wake the dead, Ixchel saw the danger approaching in the valley: between the trees loped a dark army of plumed Chevaliers, and prowling at their sides were monstrous shadows each with six red eyes.

Amarok turned to face the Nightmare's army. Then, Ixchel turned, and Solas turned, and just as she so often had in the years after the Exalted Council, she chased Fen'Harel through the Emerald Graves. She tried not to think of such times. She tried not to hear her frantic voice crying for him as he fled; she could not allow herself to hear her wrathful demands as she stood and stared him down and shamed him for running from her. Yet the Nightmare's influence spread even ahead of its vanguard of fearlings, and the poisoned grief slowed her as she ran.

Solas was doing a remarkable job maintaining his facade as a silent wolf spirit. But the wind whispered in his wake, and where his paws fell, Spirits rose to aide them.

She passed Valor, righteous Wrath, towering Endurance--each so similar in shape and might to the powerful Spirits who had guarded Fen"Harel's refuge as Sentinels. She wove between their ranks and pushed on through the trees for what felt like many hours until it became almost a trance. She was a beating heart and pounding feet and the moving trees. 

The very same trees began to shiver as though in a high wind. For the first time since he began running from her, Solas looked back at her in concern.

Her hold was slipping.

She had no time for thought, no room for anything except feeling. She was wind in her hair and grass fresh and cool under her feet. She was adrenaline and she was--she was--

The grass vanished abruptly. They had circled back around and were suddenly facing down the army. Above them they brought a Blighted sky.

"There you are, _da'len_ ," the Nightmare crowed.

Solas turned to her, his paws slipping on wet stone as her dream began to flood. He lunged for her, and as he leaped, his form blew back like smoke until he was but a man reaching for her.

The ground gave way beneath her feet, and Ixchel fell into the Buried Sea before she could grasp his hand.

Ixchel didn't know how long she drowned in the blackness, screaming, but she was aware of the Nightmare all around her, sucking her dry of voice and breath and fears. With every memory it tore from her, she felt another dagger in her breast--and a new fear entered her, then: that she would be Dream-Slain here in the flooded dark--

Her lungs burned, everything hurt. But she needed to hurt if she were to remain un-Tranquil. The pain was all she had to cling to, and that was a fear on its own, but she had to use what she had left--and there wasn't much. So in the dark she summoned the worst phantom of that pain. It was the pain of the Veil as it tugged toward her and pulled at her, as the magic in her arm came into discordant resonance with the magic of the Veil and tried to puncture it in a way no mortal frame could withstand.

She detonated the Anchor and tore herself from the Nightmare's realm.

Ixchel woke flailing against a full-body restraint. Solas was completely on top of her, his hands digging into her arm as he tried to siphon magic out of the Anchor in spite of her thrashing. She screamed despite herself and found her throat raw and voice hoarse as though she had been screaming for hours--but as Cassandra pleaded to her, she surfaced from the last clutches of the Nightmare and fell limp.

Solas bowed over her, seemingly just as spent.

Cole was whispering softly over Cassandra's shoulder. "Things are connected, tied in a tangle. Fixing one thing might break something else," he said so apologetically to Ixchel. "Amarok didn't know. I should have been there."

Ixchel brought her free hand up and pressed it against Solas's shoulder blades. She could feel his heart racing even through his back, as though he had just run a long distance. His face was buried in her neck now that the Anchor was not flaring so painfully in her arm. It beat with a pulse that was out of time with her own--a pulse she felt beneath her hand.

She tried to remember what had brought her here, what ghosts had haunted her so badly, but she could not. She could not identify what had been stolen from her, but the shape of the fear was familiar enough.

"Fuck," she rasped, and fisted her hand in Solas's shirt. "He got me."

"Who?" Cassandra asked.

"The Elder One has enlisted a powerful demon to hunt his enemies," Cole said in a mournful tone. "The Nightmare. You've been undoing so much of their work, it had to come itself."

Solas stirred on her shoulder, but she tightened her grip thoughtlessly, desperate to keep him close. He sighed in her ear.

He pulled away just enough that he had her caged in his arms. " _Lethallan_ ," he murmured, "if this is true, I think it would be safest if you slept without dreaming for a while."

She blinked up at him in the dark and realized then that she had been crying. More tears rolled down the sides of her face as she stared up at him and nodded.

"Seeker. Cole. I will stay and tend to the Inquisitor. You should complete your watch--we still have many hours to sunrise."

Ixchel shuddered beneath him.

"We'll talk in the morning," Cassandra replied in a shaky voice, and she reluctantly left the tent. Cole followed, his hat low over his eyes, and left Ixchel in Solas's arms.

He surprised her then by leaning forward and pressing his forehead to hers, their noses touching, intimately communicating his concern.

"I'm alright for now," she found herself whispering against his lips.

His breath was hot on her skin, and the adrenaline that had not left her after the nightmares now found another focus. In the dark, she was hyperaware of his body hovering over hers. She could feel every flicker of his lashes stir air across her cheek.

They lay there, breathing with each other, until both of them had regained control over their racing hearts.

"I should...fetch the herbs," he murmured. She nodded again, and in doing so raked her nose along his cheek. He sighed again. "Ixchel..."

"Go, then," she replied.

For a moment, he seemed like he might not. But then he drew his knee up and levered himself off of her. In the absence of his warmth she curled in on herself and buried herself beneath her blankets as though to hide. It was his hand, gentle upon her head, that stirred her out again.

"Here."

He pulled aside the blanket, but when she raised her face to him she found him too close. She blinked at the shadow of his face against the dark backdrop of the tent for a moment, and then she reached for him. He let her circle her arms around his neck and guide him closer.

"Stay."

It was hardly a whisper, and not quite a sigh. But it hung between them heady and unabashed, and he acknowledged it by gently pressing his lips to her forehead. "As you wish," he replied.

He drew back her blankets and settled beside her on her bedroll. With strength that was not betrayed at all by his wiry form, he shifted her around until she was tucked against his side, her cheek on the dip between his shoulder and his chest. With one arm he cradled her back, and the other he brought up to her hand as it rested over his heart.

He pressed something into her palm.

"Chew this until it releases its juices," he said. "You may not like it."

She raised her hand to her lips, but before she could put the herbs to her mouth his nimble fingers caught her chin. She looked up at him sleepily.

"If you cannot have sweet dreams...then perhaps..."

Solas dipped closer to slant his mouth against hers. She was pliant and content in his arms as he kissed her. He did not push; there was no sense of urgency in his gift to her. He kissed her, sweet and chaste, and when he withdrew he kissed both of her eyelids, then Dirthamen's crown on her forehead. "Rest," his lips traced against her skin.

 _Ar lath ma_ , she heard so clearly in his tone. _Ar lath ma_ , she wished so dearly that he knew.

She said nothing more before she put the bitter herbs in her mouth and settled back in his arms to sleep, but not to dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar lath ma - I love you


	41. Paralysis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this four times before I settled on this. The progression was: very sweet and very fulfilling > very sad and bitter > midground?
> 
> Saving the sweet and fulfilling bits for...someday, perhaps. If we get there. *sighs*
> 
> 11/14/20

Ixchel woke so slowly it was as though she were pulling her mind out of the mire. It was even worse than waking up after the fall of Haven; although she did not ache, she was numb, and she was awake enough to know she was awake but could not fathom how to finish the process herself. The feeling brought panic with it, but then her awareness rose further.

Solas had stayed. His breath against her forehead was even and untroubled in his sleep; he still lay beneath her, arm looped behind her shoulders. A hand was clasped with hers over his sternum, while the other lay across the back of her neck, warm and heavy beneath her hair. One of her legs was drawn up and crooked over his hip, locking them together; they were inextricably entwined in every sense. Ixchel cataloged each sensation and found herself calming.

Her mouth tasted like nugshit, which was a bummer.

She tried to ignore that and focused on everything else that was so precious about this moment, while she tried to regain full control of her faculties. There were so many things she wanted to do the moment she could move again. She wanted to burrow closer, press her face into his neck and breathe him in. She wanted to tilt her chin up and meet his lips to wake him as sweetly as he had sent her off to sleep. But she was so aware, so afraid, that any movement might send him running—and she had just done _so_ much running.

She only managed to carefully lace their fingers together on his chest, over his heart.

It seemed to wake him—though perhaps he, too, had been awake as she had. His thumb swept over the back of her hand in precious acknowledgment.

 _"On dhea,"_ he murmured into her hair.

"I can't remember what it took from me," she whispered, then kicked herself, because _why couldn't she just enjoy_ the fact that he held her, that he wasn't untangling himself from her as quickly as possible? That he actually seemed to be _letting_ himself enjoy this moment?

His fingers at the back of her neck tightened slightly. "It took something?"

"It..."

She had no way to articulate what the Nightmare intended. In her last life, it had stolen her memories of what happened to the Divine, and it had hidden Corypheus's identity and the Wardens' involvement from her for strategic purposes. The information—and the fact that she had even lost her memory of that experience—had only come to the fore when she fell into its realm in the Fade at Adamant. Now there was a new question of what it could have taken from her, and why.

Her fingers tightened in Solas's shirt.

She had so much dangerous foreknowledge. Things she had was afraid of coming to fruition, as well as sequences of events she knew she _must_ follow. But what was missing?

She closed her eyes again and tried to keep her breathing even. From Halamshiral to Adamant to the Arbor Wilds to the final closing of the Breach—she needed to remember, find the holes in her memory. Had the Nightmare gained some tactical advantage over her?

There— _there_ they were, some holes. She could guess them by their absence; she was smart enough for that. But like a spider's venom, her mind was numb around the edges of the wounds. Grasping felt like trying to catch water in her fists, or trying to weave together a previous night's events while still in a drunken stupor.

The first hole: standing over the pile of ashes where Corypheus had been a moment before, then being lifted on Bull's shoulders. Something important was missing in-between, something shaped like Solas ripping her heart out of her chest. She remembered that she should have been happy but she wasn't, and she wasn't for a long time. She couldn't remember the _leaving_ , but she remembered that he'd _left_ —but there was something else there that she couldn't grasp.

Something that might be the key to making him stay.

"It was finding what I'm afraid of," she whispered.

"Like the Deep Roads?"

She wracked her memory for, but there was only cold and empty darkness and the soft refrain: _'...still a Shaper...'_

The more she tried to think, the more empty she felt there. All she could grasp was the distant crackle of explosives. She had found such horrors there, but the fear of their shadows in deeper darknesses was all that remained.

“It’s terrifying, knowing I’m so scared of them—but not remembering why, or what they were,” she said, voice cracking desperately.

But _why_ had it taken such things? Even back then, the Nightmare had not needed to steal anything from her in order to know her fears; it had been able to harass each of her companions as though it had known the darkest shadows of their minds by virtue of their presence in its domain. There could only be one answer then, for the Nightmare didn't take something that could be used to help Corypheus. _No_. It couldn't resist taking the crux of her deepest fears to chew on—something whose _absence_ would haunt and hurt her just as much as when she held it knowingly.

It was a hungry, base beast, and she would make it pay for its sadistic greed.

Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and angry. "It just wants to torment me," she croaked.

"Whatever this Nightmare thinks it could turn against you, I _know_ that you are stronger," he replied soothingly, and he squeezed her a little with the arm he had wrapped around her shoulders. “And it will not haunt you again.”

Ixchel pressed her damp eyes into his shirt and tried to catch her breath. She was caught off-guard by her anger, and she tried to take charge of her mood and move on once more:

"Solas... What are you afraid of?"

He began to card his fingers through her hair, down the nape of her neck to her shoulders, and then he drew a heady breath and seemed to swallow many words before selecting the right ones. Each slipped out one-by-one as if he still weren't sure they were correct: "That this world might prove irredeemable in the end."

She settled closer to him with a shiver, because she felt the shape of that fear, too, like a wound, but it had not left her. It must have been to big, too entrenched, to steal from her. It still beat with a sickly pulse in the back of her mind:

_Futile._

"Me too," she admitted, though her voice nearly failed her.

He hummed deep in his chest. "I know," he said, and the familiar note of regret struck a painful chord in her. "This world’s creator must be cruel indeed, to allow the world to test your remarkable faith so constantly... _Ir abelas, Ixchel."_

She looked up at him searchingly and was met once again with the guilt and grief of a god. He looked away, moving his chin as though to hide in his shoulder.

But Ixchel would not let him run from this. He could not know just how much of her torment he was responsible for, Nightmare not withstanding. And she deserved better than his guilt.

She raised the hand that held the Anchor to his face. She felt the lines of his jaw, followed its flow to the swell of his cheek, then traced the same arch out to the tip of his ear. Then, she settled her hand against the back of his neck, warm and secure. His breaths had deepened as caressed him, eyes closed while he reveled in her touch—

And when her hand ceased its wandering, he opened his eyes and fixed them on her, gray like a storm on the approach. He studied her, searched her gaze for something; what he found brought only the smallest change to his face, but she saw it, and she held her breath.

"You inspire me," he told her. " _Rogasha'ghi'lan_... It is a worthy path you have led me down. It is difficult to see you hurting for it."

Her heart swelled in her chest 'til it pressed tight against her ribs. She stretched herself to meet him and he bent toward her.

Then the both of them pulled back with grimaces on their faces.

Ixchel rolled over to spit out the herbs that still clung to the inside of her cheek, and Solas chuckled to himself as she reached for her canteen of water. She resorted to sitting up on her knees to drink deeply of it, while he lay back and watched her.

“Sorry,” she coughed.

His lips quirked in response, but no more. As she looked down at him and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and it was her turn to search for something in his face. He let her look, unabashed and unwavering as he gazed up at her in the murk of the tent.

She knew what love looked like in his eyes, and grief. She did not find either at the moment, and neither did she find certainty. Solas might have seemed less weary, and somewhat more content, than usual, but she could not tell if he would pull away again. If he were to rethink this latest crossed-boundary and try to pull back—if he tried to convince himself that he had gone too far in offering her comfort… She didn’t know if her heart could take it.

 _Ar lath ma,_ her heart beat in her throat, but she swallowed the confession and chased it with more water. She wanted him to make promises. She wanted him to be explicit. She _wanted_ something she could cling to instead of slippery moments that could be thought of as mistakes. Nothing else would suffice, and nothing else could distract her from her duty.

For Ixchel loved him, that much was true…but she _needed_ to stop him from ending the world in blood and fire, and that was true whether he loved her or not. She already knew that such love was not the key to swaying him from his _din'an'shiral_ —in fact, it could be less a tool than a liability. And she remembered Cole's grim proclamation: _the next time you imagine him touching you, someone you love will die._

It did not matter what the Nightmare had taken. She knew she needed Solas to trust her. She knew she needed Solas to have hope for this world, as it was, and not as it could have been without his terrible mistakes. She needed him to see new life, not ghosts all around him.

“I have a world to save,” she said quietly.

“And I am keeping you from doing so?”

“No.” She leveled a weary stare upon him. “I just don’t have it in me to chase you, Solas,” she told him slowly, softly.

A thoughtful look crossed Solas’s face, and he sat up. Even on her knees, they were face-to-face, and she longed to close the distance and kiss him again. Maybe he would even allow her to do so. But she did not want him to _allow_ her to kiss him.

So she instead raised a hand to the side of his neck and stroked the soft skin there, felt the heightened pace of his pulse. He clasped her hand lightly, likewise feeling the beat in her wrist. They observed each other closely for a moment longer.

But Solas did not kiss her again.

Ixchel sat back on her heels and pushed herself away to begin her daily preparations. With her back to him, she found that she held her breath. She felt every move he made, as he gathered himself and his belongings in silence. He did not draw closer to her even once.

Ixchel swallowed her grief. She took a deep breath that caught painfully in her throat, but he still did not come to her.

It was almost a relief when he left the tent at last.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel came out of her tent and found Cassandra making coffee over the fire. Cole and Solas were nowhere to be seen. The Seeker fixed her with a look of pure worry the moment she came out, and she held out a mug of coffee silently.

Ixchel took it and sat heavily beside her.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re mad. But the truth is that I wasn't going to tell you," Ixchel said.

Cassandra’s jaw tightened.

"It really seemed like we had it handled. Cole has been keeping the Nightmare out of my dreams for months now."

"So what happened?"

"I think it's exactly what Cole said last night," Ixchel replied. "We've thwarted enough of Corypheus's operations that maybe all that's left for them to do is seek retribution—or attempt to dissuade me from further meddling. It wasn't just the Nightmare trying to pry into my head. It was a full-on assault to find the things that hurt me the most."

Cassandra's lip curled. "It astounds me, the cruelty of these people... _their demons..."_

"It's a good tactic," Ixchel noted grimly. "No one can function for long without sleep."

"Solas said there is a way to make sure you do not dream?" Cass asked, frowning. "I was not aware there were herbs that could produce such an effect.”

The mage in question ducked out from his tent just in time to chime in. "Indeed, the herbs sever one’s connection to the Fade when one sleeps. Unfortunately, I do not think this is a long-term solution.”

He joined them by the dwindling fire and sat opposite from Ixchel. She tried to keep her face carefully composed as she looked at him—seeking information only, nothing more

“As you can imagine, for something to be so akin to Tranquility, there are significant negative consequences to extended use." He extended a hand to her apologetically. “The mind heals when it wanders the Fade, as does the body when the mind leaves it for a time. Long term, dreamlessness can cause weakness and chronic fatigue.”

"The one individual whose Tranquility has been reversed...suffered greatly," Cassandra said in a bitter tone. "To undergo that _every_ morning?"

"Indeed. One risks low or volatile moods as well. But it is unlikely you would rest much better in the clutches of the Nightmare, however. This way, at least, you might not suffer the additional torment of such a sadistic creature."

"Or lose valuable tactical information to it, should it stop being greedy and start playing smart," she pointed out.

"We must put a stop to it," Cassandra insisted. "For your sake, Inquisitor."

The young woman gave a short laugh. "Cassandra, if you have some way of going into the Fade to wage war with it, be my guest."

Cassandra frowned thoughtfully, then jumped as Cole appeared on her other side. "Maker's breath—”

"Amarok escaped," he told them. "He's too young, and the Nightmare is too big, too old. You can't run from it—you have to hide. But Amarok didn't know." He looked down at his hands. “I should have told him.”

Ixchel reached for him and clutched one of his hands tightly. “It’s okay,” she told him. “It would have found me sooner or later.”

Solas's eyes slid back to catch Ixchel's. "In the long term, there may be ways of building your defenses, creating a maze to trap any Fade walker before they got close enough to do harm. But it would require vigorous meditation during your waking hours, and unthreatened practice while you dreamed.”

"So, after Corypheus has stopped setting his Nightmare on me personally," Ixchel guessed. "In the meantime, then, our focus remains the same. I should hope you all could handle me when I'm a little crabby."

-:-:-:-:-

They spent the next several days working their way through the Emerald Graves. Ixchel kept herself busy closing rifts, routing Freemen and Red Templar cells, and establishing a larger Inquisition presence throughout the mighty forest. They discovered that in addition to having an operation on the Emprise, the Venatori specifically had been sent after ancient Elvhen ruins all across the Dales. Ixchel warned Leliana of such things, and she expected it wouldn't be long before the Nightingale provided a fully-researched roster of ruins, agents, and movements for her tactical insight.

In the meantime, Dorian and Blackwall had arrived. With all five of her companions, she set out to tackle the dragon who threatened the area—and in doing so, she was able to clear the way for pilgrims seeking to scatter ashes and pay tributes as they once had in peace. As an added bonus, Ixchel was able to send more dragon bone and scales to Vivienne's dressmakers and armorers, for the Winter Palace preparation team had now apparently grown beyond her seamstress. The rest of the components she sent to Vivienne anyway, for potions and arcane purposes.

And because she was a glutton for punishment, she took everyone on a merry adventure to the greatest of Great Bears who threatened one of their forward camps. Dorian was loudly upset with her, but when she offered him the first claim of the bear's striking striped pelt, he shut his mouth. Cassandra didn't voice her disapproval but her narrowed eyes spoke volumes of it anyway.

They dragged the spoils of their victory back to camp, and Ixchel was weary but mostly pleased—puckishly so, after annoying her companions with her derring-do. Her mood perked up even further when she heard Dorian and Solas begin discussing magic once again.

“Solas,” Dorian was asking, voice a little strained from his load of bearskin. “That little flare you sometimes do with your staff… You’re redirecting ambient energy to your personal aura?”

“Yes. The effect clears magical energy and creates a minor randomized barrier to impair incoming magic.”

“Fascinating.” Dorian was quiet for a moment. “You know, I’ve never seen anyone in this part of the world do it. It’s a Tevinter technique—”

“The technique is not _Tevinter_. It is Elvhen.”

“Oh! That means we—ah…never mind, then.”

Solas chuckled darkly. “It does not take away from your magical skill, Dorian. You are an impressive mage.”

“You’re not the first to say so.” Dorian sighed wistfully, as though remembering many more flattering compliments, and Ixchel knew his mood had already lightened.

Solas’s gaze met Ixchel’s, and she caught a mischievous glint in his eye. “But would you not conserve magical energy with a less…flashy…style?”

“Yes, and I’d live longer if I only ate rice and boiled vegetables, but that’s _just_ as unlikely,” Dorian replied. Ixchel’s laughter was perhaps outsized, and her pealing giggles echoed about the trees startling birds and nugs alike. But it was contagious, and soon even Cassandra was snickering with her.

Ixchel was out of breath and emptied when she finally regained some composure, and she found she suddenly did not even have the energy to smile. She sighed and scrubbed at her eyes with her fists, and she still hadn’t cleared them by the time they reached camp.

She handed off the reigns of her horse and its load to a soldier, and she went to sit on a bench near the fire. Her head was swimming. She tried to focus on the sounds of the camp settling around her, but she was distracted by Dorian saying the most startling thing:

“Cassandra, I owe you an apology.”

“…Me?” Cassandra seemed aghast. “For what?”

“For judging your Seekers. Considering my feelings about Tevinter, I shouldn’t throw stones.”

“That is remarkably decent of you, Dorian,” Ixchel called.

“But it’s so fun to goad her!” Dorian insisted. “Cassandra, do you know how you get this little knot between yoru eyebrows… See, there it is! Ixchel, look! Isn’t it delightful?”

But Ixchel did not look up, and she could just _feel_ Dorian’s mood sag.

Cassandra seemed to notice as well, because she did not come up with a dig in return for Dorian. Instead, she turned her attentions to Blackwall. “Ah, that whetstone you lent me—it produces a remarkable edge. Surely we have you to thank for how we fared against that…beast.”

“Celestine Black, they call it. It’s the only stone I’ll use on my blades,” Blackwall replied cheerfully. “You know what? Keep it. I’ll find another.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra said, perhaps more warmly than Ixchel had expected. She finally raised her eyes and blinked up at the Seeker, and for just a moment, she thought she saw Cassandra blushing. “That’s very kind,” Cassandra finished, and no, Ixchel was _right_.

She had so rarely seen such a smile on the Seeker’s face. Ixchel turned to look at Blackwall to see if there was reciprocation there, but he just blinked at her. “What are you staring at?”

“Your head,” Cole said, reappearing so suddenly beside Ixchel that she _shrieked_. He ignored her, though the entirety of the camp had stopped what they were doing to look in her direction. She buried her face in her hands again. “So many tangles,” Cole said, unperturbed. “ Knots. And that’s just what’s on the _inside_ … You need a hairbrush.”

Cassandra’s laugh was almost as startling as Ixchel’s shriek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On dhea - good morning  
> Rogasha'ghi'lan - brave guide/teacher/leader  
> Ar lath ma - I love you  
> Din’an’shiral - journey to death/the end


	42. The Knights' Tomb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeper Hawen just knows how to raise them don't he
> 
> 11/14/20

Ixchel felt herself growing clumsier with each passing day. After so many nights without dreams, her nerves felt frayed but her responses sluggish, and she thought perhaps that she might feel better once she had meditated some on her forebears.

It was toward the end of their stay, after it seemed that they had rid the Graves of most of the remaining dangers, that Ixchel felt she had the time to walk through the trees and make notes of the Knights and nobles who were commemorated beneath them. It was then that she returned again to Din'an Hanin.

And Keeper Hawen's First.

When Ixchel saw the aravels, she set off at a run. Two barriers immediately settled over her, for Dorian and Solas must have thought there were danger ahead—but she discovered that she was early, and Taven was still alive.

She skidded to a halt in the tall grass and called out, breathless, _“Savhalla!”_

The small group of Dalish who had accompanied Taven all looked up and around with keen eyes. She raised her empty hands and tried not to make any expression that might twist her vallaslin too gruesomely amid her scars. _“Tuelanen i’na.”_

"Who are you?" Taven asked, stepping forward with his staff.

"I am Ixchel Lavellan," she said. "I lead the Inquisition against the threat of the darkspawn Magister who opened the Breach in the sky."

The elves' furtive glances became open stares.

"The Inquisitor?" one whispered. "It's true, then?"

 _“An’daran Atish’an,_ Inquisitor,” Taven said. “What brings you here?”

Ixchel gestured around them. “I was investigating the Venatori and Red Templar movements in the Dales. I have learned that the forces of Corypheus are searching Thedas for the ruins of our ancestors, _Sael_ Taven. Now that I see you here, I worry they will murder any clans who stand in their way.”

The Dalish fell silent, stiff and wary. She was aware of how her own companions shifted behind her, uncertain and uncomfortable at her startling announcement. Ixchel held her breath a moment. “They will return to this forest in larger numbers soon, and I would not be able to meet honored Hawen’s eyes if I did not warn you,” she said.

Taven did not look away, studying her intently. "If what you say is true then I have all the more reason to remain here,” he said. “It would be an honored legacy to fall defending the last defenders of the Dales."

The Inquisitor chewed her lip. Frankly, she agreed with his sentiment, and if she knew anything about the youth of Hawen's clan, it was that they were obsessed with honor. " _Sael_ Taven," she said at last, "if you would allow it, I will stand with you today and investigate Elgar’nan’s Bastion for remnants of our people. If there is anything of value that the Venatori and Red Templars might hope to steal, it will be safer with you and your clan than if it were to remain here.”

She let her offer stand in the air for a moment, then she slashed her hand through the air with finality. “After that, I would beg all of you to return to the Keeper. If Corypheus's forces find nothing of value, they may leave it the place intact—but they might take out their frustrations on you if you were to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The young elf leaned on his staff, but his stance was closed-off, for he stood with his opposite arm crossed over his chest, hand wresting on his elbow. “You would let us take any artifacts for safe-keeping?” Taven asked.

“Of course, _arani_ ,” she said.

She noticed how Taven eyed her entourage with mistrust, and she gestured at Solas. "My friend is a well-traveled and honorable Dreamer, and his barriers are strong. I would have him accompany us.”

“The initial work is tedious,” he said. “I hope you are not afraid to get your hands dirty.”

Ixchel spun around to her human companions. Dorian shrugged. “I’m not made for ruins. Terribly allergic to bone dust.” He spun his staff and went to stand at one of the entrances.

Cassandra and Blackwall nodded at her, then went to position themselves at the other entry points.

Ixchel did not look at Solas before she turned and hurried after Taven. They passed through the first set of heavy stone doors and into a ruined courtyard, where the Dalish had been excavating already.

“Have you ever set foot in such a place, _arani_?” the Dalish First asked when she rejoined him in the second level of the courtyard. He stood even taller here, planted with his staff. It seemed that more than the sun warmed him.

She smiled a little but did not answer.

"We have done some research here already,” he said. “There does not seem to be much on the outside: statues of Emerald Knights and their wolves, but very little by way of art or history. The knots in the architecture place its construction early in the Dalish kingdom, but that is not so illuminating. Some textiles remain, but their patterning and knit are likewise not novel to us.”

Taven led her deeper into the tomb, into a place where even the sunlight seemed burnished with age, and the shadows darkened with age. His people had already lit many torches in the area. “There is a larger inner sanctum that holds more surprises. It seemed overgrown at first, but I believe if you look closer, it’s more apparent that some magic coaxed the vegetation into the foundation in a sort of symbiosis”

Ixchel glanced at Solas briefly, but he had only pressed his lips into a slightly tighter line than normal. “And what purpose do you believe this place served?” she asked.

“A fortress of the Emerald Knights—and their honored resting place,” Taven replied. “There are a few collapsed walls that lead into catacombs, but thus far we have only found bones without identification. Likely they were footsoldiers. There is a door we cannot open that I believe may be where the most respected Knights were laid.”

They reached the greener chambers, and Ixchel breathed deeply of the ancient air. The last time she had been here, it had been thick with tainted lyrium and blood magic.

“We’ve found a few wall depictions similar to those Clan Sabrae has documented in Ferelden.”

“Taven!”

The trio turned as a young hunter approached. “I translated the engraving outside.”

Taven nodded regally. “Let’s hear it, _lethallin_.”

_“‘Curse the past—the place where lies were born. For beneath their sun, our people fall. The lands their lady once bestowed now stolen in her name. So when these words are read, we shall be gone.’”_

The young elf’s smile was jarring against the grim words they had brought. It faded when Taven did not immediately praise their translation. “It’s about the Exalted March,” they added eventually.

Ixchel did her very best to keep her features schooled, but from the nervous look of the hunter, she did not succeed. She turned back to Taven pointedly. “What do you hope to find here?” she asked. “I said we’d help you investigate. Is there any particular area you’d like us to focus on? Solas is an incredible mage and scholar. I’m a bit of a thug, but I’m good at sniffing out hidden chambers and such.”

Taven considered her offer. “There are sconces in some of the catacombs that no flint will light. I know it is magic, perhaps a puzzle of some kind.”

“Ah! Veilfire!” Ixchel beamed at him, then looked up at Solas expectantly. “We’ve encountered plenty before.”

He raised his eyebrows at her and was silent for just long enough for her brow to pinch—and then he bowed his head to Taven. “It would be right for a Dalish First to learn what the Fade-remembered flames can reveal. We have found messages and magical secrets hidden from all but this light.”

Taven’s shoulders finally relaxed a little. “I would be honored if you taught me."

-:-:-:-:-

Their exploration of the Hallowed Tombs took most of the afternoon. Taven’s scouts finished translating the dire messages left beneath the monuments to the Emerald Knights, and Taven himself kept occupied in the crypts, scouring every surface with Veilfire. He discovered that the remains _were_ labeled with the names of the fallen soldiers, as well as epitaphs such as one for Andrale:

_Frail, faltering in the darkness._  
_Though imperfect, her voice a balm._  
_Andrale, Falon’Din enasal enaste._

He surmised that they were troops captained by the Knights who were remembered in each chamber's epitaph. If so, they had commanded great numbers.

For their part, Ixchel and Solas walked more purposefully through the dark halls. Solas discovered another Elvhen artifact to strengthen the Veil, and Ixchel searched for the shards of the Emerald Seal that would open the final chamber. She was still missing a few pieces when she came across a young Dalish mage examining a veilfire epitaph with wide, but unseeing eyes.

“This is _my_ name,” she said. “Talim.”

“Then you are part of a legacy of guardians,” Ixchel told her. “As are we all. You have done that legacy an honor, learning of these secrets.”

Talim reached out and ran her fingers delicately over the surface of the runes. “I wish we could do more,” she said sadly. “I wish I could take this whole place in our aravel…keep it safe, keep it ours.”

Ixchel swallowed. “One day, it could be. Or,” she said, and she pressed one hand over her heart, “one day, you could build something from the memory you carry in here.”

She found Solas standing in the archway behind her when she turned, watching her.

 _“G’on?”_ she asked.

 _“Ga son,”_ he replied. “You are so remarkably…consistent.”

“I am _me_. What else is there to be?”

He chuckled and took a step back to allow her to slip past him in the tunnel. “I am trying to imagine what this place must have been like in the early days of the Dalish kingdom.” His voice followed her, echoing off the walls until it passed her and reached the end. “It could not _all_ have been a tomb. There are likely ritual chambers, barracks, places of contemplation… A training yard for the warriors and parade grounds to assemble their armies upon. Not so different from Skyhold.”

Ixchel considered this as she climbed up a ruined wall and returned to the main level. “I believe all that tells us is war is a constant of mortal life,” she said blandly when he’d joined her. “The architecture is different, they are separated by ages, but the same needs were met in their form and function."

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel studied the mosaics of the Evanuris very carefully. She wanted to pay more attention to their different depictions through the ages, from the time of Arlathan to the time of the Dales. The artistry was similar—the same warm golds and cool greens, even similar mortar, it seemed—but there were differences in the symbolism that accompanied each god, and subtle changes in the way the patterns curled within their faces—

Taven startled her when he cleared his throat behind her.

“It is growing late,” he said. “I thank you for your help, Inquisitor. You and Solas have been invaluable.”

She offered him a weary smile. “My time was well spent, Taven. I’m sure Solas agrees.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew the ceramic shards of the Dalish seal. “Here. I was hoping to find the rest for you.”

The mage’s eyes widened as he accepted the fragile tokens. _“Enaste, lethallan,”_ he said. He then looked down at her somewhat guiltily. “I… I should be honest with you. I am searching for something quite specific here: an account of the Exalted March on the Dales, from a Dalish perspective. To regain knowledge that hasn’t been distorted by the Chantry…”

Ixchel reached out and closed his fingers more firmly around the shards of the Emerald Seal. “Would be a powerful tool to sow doubt among the humans that their Exalted March was so divinely mandated,” she said, “and a uniting thread among the descendants of the Knights within our clans, and an inspiration to city elves in their diaspora.”

They shared a shy, conspiratorial smile. Ixchel, inspired, pulled him toward a statue that looked across a chasm toward the towering Mythal.

 _“’Sing for the past—where rests those who came before. For each knight, a seed was sown, roots twisting with their brothers and sisters. So the forest grew, a reflection of our might,”_ Ixchel read from its pedestal. She clasped him by the forearms and looked up at him in search of the spark she had seen in Terinelan’s eyes, the spark she felt within her own heart. _“We_ are the seeds, scattered to the wind. It has been our duty for so long to rescue our legacy…but what will we do with that knowledge, if not to teach the lessons of the past to the world today, and imagine a new future? To twist our roots together and _grow?”_

Taven grinned at her. “Oh, if Keeper Hawen has few good words for me, I can’t imagine what he’d say about _you_ , _lethallan_. How can it be that a rebel such as you is the Herald of _Andraste?”_

She snorted. “Believe me, I ask myself that all the time. But you’d be surprised. Thedas is ripe for a rebellion. Even the Right Hand of the Divine is questioning the foundation of her world.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel showed Taven’s party the general location of the Inquisition camps and warned them to run from any Red Templars or Venatori they saw. “I’ll be back in the morning to help some more, but after that I believe there are some slave operations we have to disrupt in the Emprise,” she told them.

She was reluctant to part—she couldn’t imagine how good it would feel to have aravels circled around her again, and to have the halla sleeping close, and to have more people her age sitting around a fire, telling stories. But she went back to her own camp with the others, took her bitter herbs, and fell into cold unconsciousness once again.

It had become routine for Cassandra to roughly shake her awake in the morning, for Ixchel had lost all ability to rouse herself at consistent times when under the effects of the drugs. And even then, she was slow to fully regain consciousness. Usually her joints felt stiffer, her extremities felt more numb—she even found it difficult to hold her sword if it was too soon after waking.

But that night, she surfaced from the dreamless sleep with clarity, and there was a buzzing in her limbs like fire. Even more so, as she leaped to her feet, she could feel something _inside her_ , the thing that connected her to Amarok, the thing that Amund the Sky Watcher had noticed about her, the thing that was and was not like Solas’s magic in her arm—it was alive, awake, insistent. It pulled her urgently, and she followed it without question.

She could not remember donning her armor, but when she suddenly found herself running through the arches of Din’an Hanin, she realized that she was fully dressed as though ready for battle. She flew through the Dalish camp, where Taven was up on guard. He jumped up, a barrier raised at her wild approach, but she did not stop to engage. She simply ran, and he shouted, and she felt him follow.

Ixchel followed the pull deep into the tombs of the Emerald Knights and right up to the door of the final tomb.  
The door was ajar.

She had just noticed it when a girl screamed from within.

Ixchel kicked the door wide open and charged, Taven hot on her heels. She immediately realized what had happened: someone in Taven’s group had snuck off, found the last of the Emerald Seal, and solved the Veilfire puzzle within—and in doing so, fallen prey to the Revenant.

The air was thick with magic that called to her, not with the song of lyrium but with the song that was in her blood. The Revenant stood above a small prone body, its sword raised to strike the killing blow.

Ixchel tackled the Revenant without even drawing her sword.

The empty air within the haunted armor whirled around her like poison, and it reformed above her when she fell. Ixchel rolled deftly out of the way of its downward swing and braced herself against the base of the strange idol at the focal point of the tomb before kicking out at the Revenant’s legs. It staggered, and Taven’s magic crackled and boomed as a fire mine formed in mid-air to encase the demon.

Ixchel jumped up, unhooked her greatsword, and swung into battle.

“Get the child!” she shouted at Taven. “I got this one!”

An arrow thudded off her armor.

“There’s too many!” Taven cried.

“Get the _child!”_ Ixchel roared.

She swung her greatsword in a lateral circle, chopping into the Revenant’s armored side before glancing off. The armor it had selected was blackened with foul magicks, but it was well-constructed armor from the early Dales. In a distant part of her, where she could coldly calculate enemy movements even while in the midst of battle, she wondered whose corpse she was fighting. Elandrin? Soran? Rin?

Another arrow whizzed by her—lower this time. She wondered if the corpses would start aiming for her legs.

“Ixchel _run!”_ Taven shouted.

But Ixchel had seen a twist in the Revenant’s attention, and she leaped in front of it before it could even try to drag Taven back from the door and onto its blade. She held her blade with two hands, one on the grip and one on the blade itself and blocked the Revenant from skewering her, even though it took all her strength and left her flat-footed to any of the other corpses who might attack her—

She felt something brush against her back, massive and…furred?

Ixchel did not look, did not question.

With a feral snarl, she kicked the Revenant back and then swung her pommel into its head. The helmet spun around backward, which would have blocked any mortal’s vision, but this demon had no need of eyes. It did, however, throw it off balance for a moment, and with the same two-handed grip, Ixchel drove her blade through a gap in its armor and dug deep.

She pulled free in a slashing motion, severing several straps of the Revenant’s armor as she went. Ixchel saw for the first time what a Revenant’s innards looked like, and she would have vomited if she took time to really process the writhing mass of maggots and chainmail. Instead, she simply summoned that power within her and leaped toward the creature, her greatsword arching down to slice the Revenant in two from crown to toe. Fire flowed in the wake of her blade, and the stone cracked beneath it when she connected with the floor.

She whirled on her remaining enemies and found them fallen. Most of them had their heads ripped off or their throats torn, limbs tossed wildly about the tomb—but there was no sign of what had caused such havoc. Battle-rage leaving her, Ixchel knelt, head bowed against the flat of her blade despite the ichor.

But she felt the pull again.

The Inquisitor picked up the scroll of the Death of Elandrin and walked back to the door. Taven leaned there, an arrow in his leg and his mana depleted, and the unconscious form of Talim lay on the ground beneath him. She was alive and unharmed except for a bruise spreading across her temple. Ixchel pressed the scroll into Tevan’s chest and continued walking toward the pull.

She reached the foot of the statue of Mythal, and she looked down.

In the ruined chasm where she had walked just earlier that day, there grew a tree.

Ixchel crumpled at the sight, unconscious at the foot of the All-Mother, and that was where they found her the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Savhalla - greetings  
> Tuelanen i’na. - Creators be with you (very religious/formal)  
> “An’daran Atish’an” - The place you go is a safe place (welcome)  
> Sael - First (Dalish role)  
> Arani - my friend (only slightly closer than acquaintance)  
> G’on? - how are you  
> Ga son - everything is well  
> Enaste, lethallan, - blessings, friend (close friend, kin)


	43. Din'an Hanin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *itches to get to Halamshiral and talk about _dresses_.
> 
> But politics? Politics doesn't need no fancy balls. Politics is now.
> 
> 11/16/20

[ ](https://imgur.com/a/xM56Gec)

* * *

Ixchel went through her new morning routine of regaining sensation in each of her limbs, starting from her fingertips and toes, up to her wrists, elbows, arms—until she could push herself up onto her hands and knees. Her ears were ringing, but as she blinked the haze from her eyes she began to recognize where she was.

“She’s awake!” a voice called.

“Ah, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel didn’t recognize the next voice immediately, but when a blond Dalish elf crouched into view, she remembered Taven and Din’an Hanin—and the Revenant. So _that’s_ why she was so sore.

Taven lowered himself down beside her with ginger movements; she could see the telltale mass of thick bandages under his leggings, which were blood-stained on the thigh. He had been wounded in the night...she could barely remember it.

“Is the kid alright?” she asked, carefully sitting back onto her haunches.

“Talim is afraid she got you killed,” he said ruefully. “I think we all worried that. Fortunately, you lived, so the Inquisition didn’t murder us all in retribution.”

She snorted. “They better not. After all I’ve prostelytized at them?” She looked around and found that had been lying between the semicircle of aravels at Elgar’nan’s Bastion, surrounded by Taven’s party on watch. “I’ve been sleeping like the dead lately, though. How long has it been? Has anyone come looking for me yet?” she asked.

Taven cut his eyes at her. “Well you’ve missed breakfast, certainly. Solas and your shem companions stormed through here earlier. When I told them what happened, they moved into the Knight’s Tomb to try and determine what magic could have brought you here.” He raised his chin. “Solas said it was not possible you were conscious at all. He said you were incapacitated?”

Ixchel looked over at the entrance to the fortress. “Well, I was conscious. But I _shouldn’t_ have been; he’s right about that.” She chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. “I should go make sure they don’t desecrate anything or something.”

“The ancestors would appreciate that, I’m sure,” Taven said wryly. “I would come, but they seemed a little…”

She patted his shoulder appreciatively. “I know. I’m sorry I brought this on you.”

“Well, Talim is the one who should be sorry, and she is,” he replied. “Good luck.”

Her knees still shook when she managed to get to her feet, and she wobbled in the direction of the inner courtyard. By the time she had reached the Hallowed Tombs, she had managed to regain most of her coordination—but her mental faculties felt as clumsy and circular as ever. She passed the statue of Mythal and gave it a grudging glance; once again, she noticed that there was a _sudden tree_ growing out of the chamber below the statue, where just a day before she was certain there had been nothing. She had the urge to spit on it just to make a statement, but she restrained herself. She did pause, however, and closed her eyes in contemplation, but she felt no trace of the magic that had woken her and called to her in the night.

She did, however, hear plenty of shouting coming from within the Knight’s Tomb.

Ixchel sighed and pressed on. Blackwall stood awkwardly at the entrance to the Knights’ Tomb, apparently fully preoccupied with not looking inside at the argument. He seemed exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable in such a hallowed Dalish fortress; when he noticed Ixchel approaching, he relaxed only a little. “Best get in there before someone gets hurt,” he rumbled.

Ixchel sighed, squared her shoulders, and strode in.

“Shut up!” she said loudly. Her words were drowned out by the shouting, so as she drew closer, she squeezed her eyes shut and shouted: “Everyone be _quiet!”_

In the silence that followed, her voice and footsteps echoed around the empty hall. She stormed forward. “Are you trying to raise the dead twice over?” she demanded in a lower voice. “I hope this trial run of ‘Inquisitor’s Day Off’ hasn’t ended all your friendships, because that’s certainly what it _sounds_ like.”

The three of her companions rounded on her in a suddenly unified front. “What happened?” Cassandra demanded. “You left the camp without anyone noticing!”

“Taven said that you fought an entire battalion’s worth of corpses, and a Revenant no less!” Dorian added. “I respect your martial prowess, but _that_ is frankly unbelievable.”

Solas’s face was white with fury, but before he could say anything, Ixchel held out her hands. “Stop it. Stop. It.” She stared them down until she saw at least Cassandra’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension. “We will respect this place and discuss things rationally. The last of the Emerald Knights deserve that much.”

“The Seeker worries that you might be possessed,” Solas said tersely.

“Well, I don’t think I am,” Ixchel said with a frown. “I woke up and I knew I just had to be here. And then I was, and Talim was about to get decapitated so I just fought until I dropped. I don’t know.” She held out her hands again. “I don’t know! It felt like…like…” She floundered as she tried to dig back into that feeling. Ixchel could hardly explain it to herself. _Why_ did she feel so strange when Amund touched her in the Forbidden Mire? _What_ did she feel between her and Amarok?

Cole appeared behind Cassandra, perched at the foot of the strange idol that overlooked the Knights’ Tomb. “We’ve _told_ you,” he said insistently. “You chose, you named yourself, you promised. You are _theirs_.”

Everyone turned to stare at him. Then, they turned back to stare at Ixchel.

“I’m just as confused,” she assured them. When they each seemed frustrated with her, Ixchel shrugged. “Look, frankly, if I told you Andraste called to me in the night and told me someone was in trouble, would _that_ satisfy you?”

“No,” Dorian sad flatly. “But perhaps the Seeker?”

Cassandra snorted fitfully but did not deny it. “But we cannot rule out that a spirit did not reach you,” she said pointedly. “Even my abilities, which I believed came from the Maker, came from a spirit of the Fade.”

“Which she is currently _disconnected_ _from_ ,” Solas protested.

“Maybe I just _know_ when my people are in danger,” Ixchel said. She shrugged again. “How _did_ I end up with this magic in my arm? How _did_ I survive the avalanche at Haven? How _did_ I travel through time?” She began to skirt them, going to approach a sarcophagus. “Sheer force of will, bad luck, and a lot of other people meddling. Who’s to say which one was at play here? Not I.”

Cole cocked his head. “Well, it’s not _bad_ luck,” he said. “You’re alive, and Talim is alive.”

Ixchel pointed a him. “See!”

“Then it could be meddling, and we don’t know who is doing it,” Dorian said. He approached her, grabbed her shoulders, and spun her around to look up at the strange, ugly idol. “This seems incongruous with the rest of the idols and architecture, no? The winged victory of Mythal and her bow-necked dragons, the wolves, the fetishes… None look like this ominous, ugly… _thing_.”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes at it for study. “Do _you_ know what it looks like?” she asked him. “Is that why you’re suspicious?”

“No,” he said behind her.

“Yeah, neither do I. It _is_ ugly, though.” She waited a moment to see if she’d be struck down, but she was not. Ixchel crossed her arms over her chest, then hissed when it strained a sore muscle in her shoulder. “Look, I don’t know. I just don’t _know_. Shouting about it won’t illuminate anything new, but maybe looking around calmly will. And barring that, maybe we should just accept the fact that whatever caused it, I was in the right place at the right time to save a life, and that is a _good_ thing.”

Solas made a harsh sound. “If you are under the geas of anything, it should be broken. For now, it compelled you to do something within your moral bounds, but—”

Ixchel ignored him as she stared up at the idol with narrowed eyes and thought of a similar conversation she’d had with Morrigan several times over. First, arguing against Morrigan drinking from the Well—then, after discovering that it was Morrigan’s dreaded mother who held the will of Mythal… In the end, however, it had only ever been a boon. Flemeth and Mythal were both mothers to the end, and they had given their daughter the gift of freedom, even under the yoke of a supposed geas—but Ixchel _hadn’t_ really known how that worked out, in the end, did she? Because she hadn’t _been_ there at the end—

“Well then,” she said coldly to Solas, “what do you propose?”

He fell silent.

“Then we search. We will dine with the Dalish, and then regroup with our scouts and head out to the Emprise as we had planned.” She turned, arms still crossed, and stretched her neck until it cracked on both sides. “Don’t make me order you.”

Her companions glared at her, and she glared back.

“Be that way,” she snapped, and she glanced at Cole; the spirit boy jumped off of the pedestal he perched on and joined her as she headed back to the entrance. She tried to smile at Blackwall when she approached. “How are you?”

“Worried,” he replied. “But you’re right. There’s nothing I can do. We must simply be vigilant, then.”

“Good,” she said flatly, and she continued out to meet with Taven and his party once more. Somewhere along the way she lost Cole again.

They were still huddled close among the aravels, expressions guarded and dark. When she approached, Taven made an effort to stand, but she gestured for him to sit. _“G’on, emma Feratherienarla?”_ she asked them all. They murmured their greetings in return. “I’m afraid I have no explanations for what happened, but I’m not so concerned. I should hope none of you are.”

“The Creators must be looking out for you, Inquisitor,” one of the hunters said firmly. “To protect Talim, and to help us secure our quarry—look. Taven, let her read it.”

Taven held out the scroll that contained the account of what happened at Red Crossing between Elandrin, his lover, and the start of the Exalted March. Ixchel took it and sat beside him to read it anew, though she remembered it in broad strokes.

“Our bets are on Dirthamen, Inquisitor,” one of the Dalish said. “You already wear his vallaslin, and to find such a secret…”

Ixchel felt a shiver go down her spine. The talk of geas and vallaslin made her nervous, and she hoped that what Solas had told her was correct: that the banished Evanuris had no control over those who wore vallaslin in the material world. She was at least a little comforted by the fact that she didn’t believe Dirthamen, whoever and wherever he was, would give a single shit about her saving Talim in the middle of the night.

She was, however, slightly suspicious of the one other Elvhen deity she knew walked the material plane. For what reason she might interfere—and _how_ —Ixchel could not fathom.

“No, do not speak of the Creators,” she replied after rereading the letter. _“‘Your god intercedes as much as ours,’_ Elandrin said. And he is right. I have been named Herald of Andraste, I wear Dirthamen’s vallaslin, and a man who would be a god—one who claims to have spoken to the Old God Dumat—is my enemy. It matters not who they are or if their power is true.”

She rolled up the two scrolls again and handed them to Taven.

“What matters is what _we_ do with our beliefs. I tell my people, human and elves and dwarves and qunari among them, that none of us are chosen or guided. _We_ choose. _We_ guide ourselves with our consciences, and _we_ must stay true to _ourselves_. That is what led me here, my friends.” She rubbed her forehead with a grimace. “For all my encounters with the ancient magicks and powers that people claim to govern the world, I have only grown more certain that it is _our_ choices that shape the world. If it leads you on a righteous path to believe in the Creators and the parables we tell of them—that is your choice. Whatever geas my friends believe I might be under, it matters not, unless I stray from the principles I hold dear—and, I’m rambling. Sorry.” She rested her head on her knees. “I’m so tired.”

Taven put his hand on her back. “Then rest, _lethallan_.”

“I have a world to save,” she said with a weak laugh, but she sat back in the grass and laid down to look up at the sky. “I do want you to bring this to your Keeper. I meant that.”

“And we shall. As soon as you leave, Inquisitor, we shall return to our families on the Exalted Plains.”

She nodded. “I know it’s our tradition to recount the tales of our people over the nightly meal, _Sael_ Taven, but could I request that you read this account to my companions over our breakfast?”

There was a soft murmur of clothing as the Dalish shifted uncomfortably. “Are you certain?”

She nodded. “Aye.”

“Then I will oblige gladly,” said Taven.

“And if there is any fuss, I will be your shield,” she assured them.

“You’ve done enough of that already!” a voice cried.

Ixchel looked over to find Talim, with her black eye, clutching at the grass with white knuckles. The Inquisitor sat up. _“Da’len,_ what would the other option be? I don’t say I would protect you only because I am an elf. I say it because it is the right thing to do. Those of us with clearer heads than others should encourage others to be better than our baser instincts. That is all.”

“But why must it be you? Why can’t _we_ stand for ourselves for peace? Be our own ambassadors?” Talim asked. The rest were silent, watching the exchange with equal amounts of curiosity and trepidation on their faces.

“Sometimes mediators are needed,” Ixchel said. “As the world grows, _you_ will have plenty of opportunities to be the peacekeepers, or to remind the world what they should aspire to be, or to confront the cruelties and lack of compassion you might see without your own clan and within it. For now, both the Dalish, and my companions in the Inquisition, are considered ‘ _my people.’_ So I will gladly play the mediator.” She placed the flat of her hand over her heart and fixed Talim with a heavy look. “I would have you repay me by remembering these lessons, and taking them with you on your journeys. You’re kind to insist that I have done enough. It’s exhausting work. And I am not the best at it. But we all must do it, when we can, and encourage each other to do it when we cannot.”

Talim’s narrowed eyes sparkled with frustrated and embarrassed tears, but the young elf nodded resolutely and mirrored Ixchel’s salute. Taven smiled a little at the exchange. “You speak with the experience of a Keeper, but the passion of a First,” he said.

“The world has taught me much, in my wanderings,” she said wearily. “It would be easier if others learned from it as I had.”

“We shall do our best, then,” said one of the hunters.

 _“Ma melava halani,”_ Ixchel said gravely. She settled back against the spokes of an aravel’s wheels and sighed.

The elves slowly dispersed to their usual responsibilities around the small camp, but Taven, injured as he was, remained close by. He handed her a canteen of water. “So have you crossed paths with Hawen recently, then?” he asked.

She dropped the canteen in her lap and nearly spilled half of its contents on her breeches. She cursed and righted it quickly, but her vision had started to swim; her mind raced too quickly, and her brain could not process her vision and her thoughts all at once. For she had realized so suddenly that she had fallen into a trap. She had not ever met Hawen, not now.

“I haven’t actually,” she said, “but I have the Divine’s own spymaster at my service, Taven.” She spoke with as much wry humor as she could. “If I wanted to, I could know how many threads are in the breeches of every Keeper in the Free Marches.” He laughed easily, and she tried not to let her abundant relief show. “That’s not to say I’m having my shem agents spy on the Dalish,” she added quickly. “I met with the Lavellan First recently: Terinelan. And we spoke of thing that you and I spoke of—about unification and rebellion, lessons and teaching… All inspired by and led by the Dalish.”

Taven raised his eyebrows. “Does your Inquisition know what you are doing?”

Ixchel thought back to the day she was named Inquisitor, this second time around. “I think so,” she said.

His eyebrows raised even further.

“Ter tells me there’s revolution already stirring in the Free Marches. The oppressed among the shem, the City Elves, and the Dalish alike are pushing back against those who would crush them. I am leading a movement that at every turn defies those who would use power for the sake of power, or who only seek to control, instead of serve, their people. Ter told me of Neria, First Ralaferin, and Mihris, and Merrill—other names, bright sparks among the Dalish who might stoke the flames across Thedas.”

Taven plucked at the grass at his side thoughtfully. “In just a short time, you have convinced me, _lethallan_ ,” he said. “My clan has wandered this region for some time, and we more than most have pondered the mistakes that led to the loss of the Dales…yet my clan also is fiercely isolationist. We currently roam the Dirthavaren, where the Orlesians spill their blood and burn their own people seemingly without cause. It may be hard to make an argument for unity and outreach to Hawen against such a backdrop.”

Ixchel watched him as he began braiding strands of grass delicately between his nimble fingers. But her mind was far from their camp. “Then the world will make the argument for him,” she said, though her tone made it more of an observation than a promise or a hope. “The next few months will be fraught. The world will be occupied with the Orlesian civil war and Corypheus’s plots. But what is constant, and what will remain, after these conflicts?” Her mouth set in a grim line. “Pain, and fear. And it is _then_ , in the aftermath, that we will need to be the most vigilant to defy those who would use pain and fear to control us all. I do not think isolationism is the lesson that will be learned.”

-:-:-:-:-

When at last her companions seemed to have chased down all their leads into dead ends, they returned to her side, and she and Taven called all the Dalish to join them for an early lunch. She was aware of her companions—even Solas—looking to her for what was customary in such a situation, but rather than warm her or make her feel more confident, suddenly she felt much as she had when she first joined the Lavellan Clan: like she was putting on a culture as performance.

She tried to swallow that and remind herself of Ter’s words to her. To the rest of the world she was Dalish because of her blood and her body. To Clan Lavellan, she was one of their own, too. And she was doing her best.

“Usually we share stories of our people at the end of the day, to meditate upon as we rest,” Taven said, “but because you must leave so soon, the Inquisitor asked that we share the tale of Red Crossing, and the death of Elandrin that set off the Exalted March that ruined the Dales.”

Ixchel watched her human companions intently as Taven read first from the scroll written by the last Emerald Knights, and then from the letter from Elandrin to Adalene. Cassandra had already been primed for such a revelation, after all that she had learned about her own order. Her reaction was no less interesting to Ixcehl, however; while it was clear that the Seeker reflected deeply and solemnly on the events, there was no denying its romance and tragedy, and Ixchel assigned the misty eyes she saw to that. Dorian and Blackwall were each clearly cowed by the revelations. By the end of it, Dorian was frowning contemplatively at his hands, and Blackwall had picked a small white daisy from the grass beside him, which he spun slowly between his large fingers.

Taven finished, and he carefully returned the scroll and letter to their ivory case. He let the silence sit heavy on their shoulders for a moment before continuing. “In a short time, our sister Lavellan has shared a great deal of wisdom,” he said. “I would have us reflect on something she discussed this morning: sometimes, mediators are necessary—to maintain peace, or to confront cruelties witnessed in the world. But from this account, I cannot place the blame on Elandrin or Adalene for the Exalted March of the Dales. There is no evidence to show whether they did or did not try to address the tensions between their peoples or within their respective communities. And I cannot blame them if they did _not_ try, if they were in an environment where they might be certain to be rebuffed.” He turned the cylindrical case over in his hands, and then he gestured around at them all. “We must all then remember: when we are not mediators, we must look for those who are, and heed them.”

A small smirk quirked Ixchel’s lips. “You never know if you might be the quarreling Anaris and Andruil, who both overlooked Fen’Harel, or if you are the the children saved by the Dread Wolf’s slow arrow,” she added, which earned her a spatter of laughter from the Dalish. “Thank you, my friends. Please bring this news and my greetings to Clan Feratherien. _Dar’eth shiral.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “G’on, emma Feratherienarla?” - How are you, my Feratherienarla (plural)  
> “Ma melava halani.” - You have spent your time to help me  
> Dar’eth shiral. - Go safely on your journey


	44. As the Crow Flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These correspondence span the journey to, and through, the Emerald Graves, and to the Emprise thereafter. I felt they were necessary to address! Much (but not all!) of the text is taken from in-game. Enjoy!
> 
> 11/16/20

_Cullen —_

_Find enclosed all of the smuggling notes found in the region of the Emerald Graves. I’ve noted which ones were taken from Red Templar operations and which were taken from Freemen._

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Maliphant:_

_When Samson made this deal, we promised you the Dales only if you could hold them and keep the roads open for our supplies. Too difficult a concept to grasp, I see! Enough of your fumbling. The Red Templars will deal with the Inquisition._

_C._

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_Looks like Fairbanks was good on his word. The Freemen were helping the Red Templars smuggle red lyrium through the Dales. In exchange, they received gold and supplies which for the furtherance of their cause. Their hopes were fueled, then exploited._

_The red templars have already sent reinforcements to the Emerald Graves to protect their operation there. We can capture some of these reinforcements. Deny them lyrium long enough, and they'll talk._

_Cullen_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_No._

_Cullen, no._

_You and I and we are better than that._

_Work with Leliana. Have our people pose as a surviving Freemen cell or something. We need not be cruel._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_My apologies, Inquisitor. You are correct to uphold our standards. It is difficult not to feel like seeking some retribution for the pain the red lyrium has caused—especially the pain I feel. I will try not to suggest orders when I am in a place like I was when I wrote you last._

_We have the name of the Red Templar lieutenant who was dealing with Maliphant and the Freemen: Carroll. Our intercepts have determined that he will be visiting the mines in the Emprise in two weeks’ time._

_Do what is necessary to stop him, of course, but for my sake, make it quick._

_I knew him once, a long time ago._

_Cullen_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_First things first: These cultists... Venatori, I think they're called? We have them in the royal palace, or so I'm told. Like rats -but with magic and nasty sneers. I don't know what they're up to, but I need to find them and drive them out. Since the Inquisition knows all about them, I'm hoping you'll help. Something something grateful something._

_Wait... did you just write that? You scribes do this on purpose, don't you?_

_King Alistair Theirin_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Sister Leliana,_

_I believe you and I know just the agent for this. Send her to Denerim._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_Well, that was bracing! A pitched battle with evil mages disguised as kitchen servants, fireballs flying and swords flashing...it brings back old times. I won't be eating anything coming out of those kitchens for a while, let me tell you. I wonder if they were going to poison me? Nasty little cultists. Anyhow, I'm grateful for the Inquisition's help. We wouldn't have found them without you._

_King Alistair Theirin_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_As you seem fascinated with the Hero of Fereldan, I thought it would amuse you to follow this saga._

_My agents and, apparently, the Antivan Crows shared a target in Hercinia. We struck a deal for them to eliminate our mutual enemy. They took out many Venatori in pursuit of the target, but then! I received this letter:_

_My dear Leliana,_

_Your Inquisition is working with the Crows? I ask only because I may have removed one of the assassins from your employ. If I'd known the man was yours, I would have at least let him finish the contract._

_No matter - Allow me to make it up to you. You know I would do a much better job than the Crows - and I am far more pleasing to work with, no? As a favor to a friend, I'll charge only a fraction of the price._

_Zevran Arainai_

_I took the liberty of accepting, as neither Josephine nor Cullen were interested in the many layers of assassins involved. Zevran tracked down the mark, but found too many Venatori with him. So my agents gave him a distraction._

_When I heard your agents would provide a distraction, I did not expect such a roaring fire. The confusion, the running about in circles - it was all very lively. Of course, [REDACTED] and his Venatori were decidedly less lively at the end of it._

_Zevran Arainai_

_My friends,_

_I did enjoy our little venture - and I hate to be a bother - but I believe you owe me a favor. After all, [REDACTED] is quite dead._

_As you may recall, the Crows and I are not on the best of terms. They were not pleased I stole their target out from under them. It means they don't get paid. They could have taken credit for my work ... but I had already written to their employer. I earned the prize, after all._

_The Crows would like to speak with me, as you can imagine. They've sent more of their number to Hercinia. It's time I left the Free Marches._

_Zevran_

_I again took the liberty of aiding Z. He has passed along this token via my agents: a superb lifeward amulet. An amusing gift from an assassin, no?_

_Leliana_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_Thanks to your work in Crestwood, I have uncovered the double agent in my ranks._

_The following is a confession, that I, Abernale Harish, known as "Painter" when in the employ of the Inquisition, did betray our cause in exchange for promises of a title from the Venatori._

_I acknowledge the mercy of the Inquisition in allowing me my life in exchange for secrets of the enemy, who I have now forsworn, and I willingly serve my sentence in prison._

_Abernale Harish, as witnessed by Sister Leliana, known as Lady Nightingale_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_L,_

_He had to be a master of the craft to escape your detection for so long—congratulations are in order. I’m glad you spared him. It was the right thing to do._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Most cordial greetings,_

_My name is Sebastian Vael, sole heir of the Vael princes of Starkhaven. I recently retook the throne of this great city from those who sought to gain it through unjust means. As a most devoted adherent of the Chantry, I felt the loss of Most Holy Justinia V keenly. I too hoped for a resolution to the terrible conflict that claimed the lives of hundreds in Kirkwall and now threatens to claim all of Thedas. I extend Starkhaven’s hand in friendship to the Inquisition. Together, let us right the wrongs visited upon our world._

_Prince Sebastian Vael_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Dearest Ambassador,_

_Do as you see fit, but seek input from Varric. He knows this guy, right?_

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_I look forward to future collaboration with the Inquisition. Please accept this gift from the Vael family’s coffers. May it be put toward relief efforts for this dreadful Mage-Templar war._

_In Andraste’s love,_

_Prince Sebastian_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Your Worship,_

_The Red Templars' holdings on the Storm Coast were once a working port. If you would turn it to your own use, we may be able to assist._

_Ivor of the Blades_

_A note penned below in a different hand:_

_We can hardly expect a bustling trade center, but since we've established a presence in both Ferelden and Orlais, direct access to the Waking Sea could prove useful. Of course, the Blades of Hessarian will refuse to help unless word comes from the Herald of Andraste._

_Josephine_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Unless you need it in my handwriting, go ahead and send a pretty message. If you do need it in my hand, ask Leliana for Argent. Gifted forger, that one._

_I._

_-:-:-:-:-_

_My Lady Inquisitor,_

_Considerable as your support has been, I'm saddened to report my motion died on the Senate floor... although I am hardly surprised. My fellows in the Magisterium don't enjoy the thought of having their "freedom" limited in any fashion. That was, however, hardly the point of the motion. It was a statement that needed to be made, and your support allowed me to make it far louder and clearer than I ever would have on my own. So I thank you._

_With any luck, this will draw support from those who feel as I do. It will also draw fire from Venatori cultists still in the shadows, but I say let them come. I will not back down in the face of such fools._

_I'm sending along a few things which I hope will aid your efforts, and will see what more I can drum up. Give my love to Dorian. The poor boy is such a hothouse orchid, he must be wilting in the cold._

_Magister Maevaris Tilani_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_Both Tevinter and Nevarra were fighting against Venatori entrenched along their border. The battle showed no signs of abating until the Inquisition sent soldiers who pulled victory out of a seemingly insurmountable defeat._

_Both sides have attempted to claim this portion of land in the past, and both are attempting to do so again. Only the presence of our soldiers prevents them from beginning a war._

_We cannot allow this to happen. For the moment, each side is grateful enough to listen to our advice, and we must convince them to send their armies home. I will press on both sides, call upon all favors, to do this._

_Ambassador Montilyet_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_Keeping you up-to-date on the false accusations of maleficarum in northeastern Ferelden, Cullen and I determined that there was no evidence of blood magic. But, having sent our Templars, we seem to have unwittingly moved according to someone else’s plans. Some mages said our men were responsible for the murders. More Templar zealots persecuting the innocent. What's worse, another murder was reported shortly after our people left. Lady Dahlia claimed the victim was her daughter—not a mage at all, although it's rumored she sympathized with their plight. Witnesses say a Templar sigil was found nearby._

_Lady Montilyet discovered Lady Dahlia’s daughter did far more than sympathize with the mages' plight. Her former lover is a mage—with extremist tendencies, at that. This mage and his associates are stirring up anti-Templar sentiment to discredit the Inquisition. Fortunately, we have enough evidence to clear our peoples’ names, but after the events in Kirkwall and the fighting in the Hinterlands, people fear extremists on both sides. If word spreads that we've lost control of the Templars—as the Chantry did before us—we may lose support from the nobility in Amaranthine. Or worse, Denerim._

_Our plan is to send no more Templars. Rather, Fiona and several of the other former-First Enchanters have agreed to meet with this terrorist cell and deal with them, one way or another. Awaiting your approval._

_Leliana_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Leliana —_

_I hate politics._

_Fuck._

_Fucking terrorists! Fuck!_

_Alright._

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Expect an update soon from Fiona. In the meantime, Cullen has forwarded this to raise your spirits. —L_

_Inquisitor:_

_Our forces have routed the Venatori in Val Colline. I've put our people to work on the relief efforts until we're recalled to duty._

_Thank you for letting us help this place. It is good to give the people a reason to trust their Templars again._

_Ser Barris_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor._

_I hear your name on everyone's lips._

_They want to conquer you in battle, and in the bedroom. You are a legend. A dream. You make them forget their troubles. the war, and the torn sky. That is what they need from you most of all. You must bring good cheer to them. When they cannot find it for themselves. Men fight harder for revelries they've tasted._

_Lord Chancer de Lion_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Cullen,_

_Just make it stop._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Vivienne will take care of this. Madame de Fer isn’t known as the Iron Lady solely because of her unbending will. I think. What I mean to say is that I know she can handle herself on a hunt, and she will be more than happy to “redirect” their conversation away from such…salacious avenues._

_If I know Lord Chancer, he’ll want roast boar stuffed with apples. That the guests hunt and kill for themselves._

_It’s handled._

_Cullen_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_My dear advisors,_

_Please find enclosed my treatise on why the language of ‘conquering’ and ‘tasting’ is entirely unacceptable in reference to: women, elves, Dalish elves, women in positions of leadership, and ME SPECIFICALLY._

_It began as a sermon...now it is a little heavy. Sent it with two ravens._

_Inquisitor Ixchel Lavellan, Dragon-Slayer, Anchor-Bearer, Herald of Andraste, NOT TASTY._

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_Arl Gallagher Wulff has approached us to offer remorse and reparations for unknowingly aiding the enemies of the Inquisition. He apparently aided the Venatori when they first arrived in Ferelden and introduced them to the Mage Rebellion. He believed the Free Mages would withdraw to Tevinter, where they would lead a better life while their absence restored peace and stability to Ferelden._

_He seems truly repentant. Arl Wulff has offered to pass known Venatori agents false information on our behalf, and to donate generously to the Inquisition. He would be a valuable ally._

_Ambassador Montilyet_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Ambassador:_

_I agree with your good judgment. And I can think of no better proof that our image—as a reasonable organization founded on compassion and the equal value of every life—will serve us in the long run, rather than hinder us due to negative politicking._

_You and Leliana would know better, but might we warn Alistair so that, should the Arl’s Venatori connections be exposed, the Arl would not be in danger of execution as a traitor to Fereldan? I worry of such things._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_We have heard fascinating stories surrounding the memorial we raised at Haven, most notably one in which a wandering Chantry sister informed them that Corypheus was the true Herald of Andraste, that he had been chosen to redeem the sins of man._

_This woman—either a madwoman or a Venatori agent—has supposedly convinced some into joining her cause._  
_It may be worth our time to find this supposed Chantry sister._

_Ambassador Montilyet_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_We located the poor mad soul claiming that Corypheus is the true Herald of Andraste. She is no Venatori agent, but a woman driven out of her wits by what she witnessed at Haven. Several refugees were with her; all have been brought to Skyhold, where they now see the folly of this Chantry sister's claims. They are eager to lend the Inquisition their support._

_Mother Giselle is grateful that we were able to bring the sister back safely. She remembers the young Chantry sister, and describes her as gifted but fragile. She hopes that with care and patience, the woman may return to herself._

_Ambassador Montilyet_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_I delivered your warnings to relevant parties. One of them is grateful, at least, and bid me send his own words to you. They are enclosed._

_Lady M._

_Da’len:_

_Do you remember when I discovered you lurking in the woods so long ago? It must have been you. Stepping out into the moonlight with a strange word written on your arm that you could not read, yet you claimed it for your name._

_Hello, Ixchel._

_I appreciate your warning regarding Corypheus and the Calling. Fortunately, my own search to defy such foul magic has taken me out of the area where the monster is operating. I wish that I had helpful information regarding Corypheus, but due to my own limited training during the Blight, I know less of ancient darkspawn lore than do most Wardens._

_From what Lady Morrigan has recounted of her visit with you, many more mysteries surround you now than when we last met. I know Morrigan can’t resist such things, so I would offer a warning—that you’ve piqued her interest, and now she will never relent—and that I did not defeat an Archdemon and go through such an effort to escape my own Calling to lose my family to your Inquisition._

_In closing, I wish you luck. This world of the shemlen is a difficult one for our kind, and I can only imagine the pressure of leading the Inquisition, an organization dedicated to the Chantry, while staying true to the Way of the Three Trees. May Mythal protect you in your quest, and Andruil bless your hunt._

_Nuvas ema ir’enastela._

_Warden-Commander Mahariel of Ferelden_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nuvas ema ir’enastela. - May you have great blessings


	45. Suledin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: gets very very dark.  
> 11/17/20

“Josephine has been warned that all the bridges leading to the quarry have been destroyed,” Ixchel told her soldiers. “Harding's scouts report there’s red lyrium everywhere in the foothills, and the entire Elfsblood River has frozen over. We’re all here because we’re a rough crew, each sturdy enough to handle the weather and the Red Templars—except Dorian.” She grinned at him, where he sat bundled up in what seemed like his entire wardrobe all at once. Her forces laughed along with her, and he huffed.

“Your goal is to locate any Red Templar camps and uproot them,” Ixchel continued. “My party will aim to reach the quarry and face the leadership there head-on. If we can drive them back to one central holding, rather than have them spread out all across the Emprise, then we can start having our people come in and fix the bridges to secure trade across Orlais and Ferelden once again.” She nodded at her captains. “We are an army now, but don’t be afraid to use guerrilla tactics. If you’re in over your head in a full-on confrontation, retreat. Pick off individuals where you can. And,” she added, “prioritize any civillians or slaves you might encounter.”

They saluted her, then began to move out. Harding approached with Solas, Dorian, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Cole.

“When I first arrived here, I discovered Sahrnia in the middle of an economic collapse like I’ve never seen. They’re starving. Penned in by Fade rifts and Red Templars,” Harding said, arms tucked behind her back to quell her shivers. “If you could close the rifts there, we could start ferrying civillians out. We’d be the first friendly face they’ve seen in a long, long while.”

Ixchel nodded. “Dorian, Solas—any guesses to what made the river freeze over so quickly? If we could counteract it and _literally_ ferry people out…”

“It may be a similar effect to that which we saw in Crestwood,” Solas said. “With a thin enough Veil and a large enough rift, I believe a feedback loop can be created where the climate of the Fade influences the climate of the material world. With the flooded caves of Crestwood, the Fade on the other side of the massive rift must have been full of material water. In turn, the Veil around Crestwood was so thin that the flooded Fade could make the material atmosphere just as wet.”

“What he said,” Dorian muttered.

“But what started the cold here, I wonder?” Ixchel frowned.

“Maybe they have a mage set up in front of a rift, continuously casting ice into the Fade,” Dorian suggested. “Poor bloke.”

“Once some of the Red Templar camps have been cleared out, send some scouts to find any rifts we might not know of yet,” Ixchel told Harding. “It’s highly suspicious to me that there would be such a sudden, unexpected freeze that cuts off the city from every source of sustenance and trade. Makes them pretty desperate—easy to push around, you know?” She crossed her arms. “We’ll start with the town and the rifts there, like you said.”

“They’ll appreciate it,” Harding said. “I’m sure. The Red Templar have been mounting frequent attacks. They want Emprise du Lion. _Bad.”_

“Then let’s get out there and take it back.”

As Ixchel led her party out of the Inquisition camp, she beckoned Cole closer. “There are many sick people,” she told him. “Be very careful, but help those you can. I trust you.”

He squeezed her elbow. “I will know if you need me, too,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to need me.”

She nodded, and when she turned back to the road, he had vanished.

When they drew within sight of Sahrnia’s walls, Blackwall and Cassandra both gasped. “This place is in ruins,” Blackwall observed, stunned. “Have the Red Templars done all of this?”

“With the chaos that’s blown through Orlais, I’d put bets on the war,” Cassandra said begrudgingly. “This cannot all have been due to a few men, no matter how much lyrium they’re growing.”

“Or dragons,” Dorian said, and he jerked his head in the direction of a distant mountain where one such creature flew in lazy circles.

Ixchel spotted a woman dressed a little grander than the rest, handing out meager bundles of radishes and grain to a group of families. She narrowed her eyes at the woman, and as the crowd dispersed and the woman approached her, Ixchel raised her chin higher to take the measure of Mistress Poulin. The woman’s cheeks were gaunt and her eyes sunk deep in her head, but Ixchel searched them for something like guilt.

“Are—are you the Inquisition?”

“You speak to the Inquisitor herself,” Cassandra said.

The woman sighed. “Then you have come in our darkest hour,” she said. “After the Usurper’s Chevaliers swept through here and destroyed our livelihood, I thought the situation was desperate. Fool that I am, I sold the Red Templars my family’s quarry. They promised to restore trade and employment for us, but they have kidnapped all the workers from town. Now they take others in the night, likely to slave away in the quarry…for what purpose…I do not know.”

Ixchel’s eyes narrowed further as she heard the bald lie in the woman’s monotone voice. As a younger woman, before she had discovered Poulin’s deal with the Red Templars, Ixchel had taken the woman’s deadened voice to be that of a weary leader whose people were starving and hopeless. Now, she heard the resignation of a woman so caught up in her lies that she could not see a way out.

Nothing made Ixchel’s blood boil more than someone who had convinced themselves of a hopeless situation, when hope was truly within arm’s reach. Even worse, Ixchel could recall Mistress Pouline’s justifications and protestations before her throne when it came time for judgment.

Ixchel gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, determined to offer the woman a way out.

“What else have you sold them?” she asked.

“What…what do you mean?”

Ixchel snatched the woman’s fur shawl and shoved her back a few steps. Cassandra gasped behind her, and Dorian likewise made a horrified sound; when Solas and Blackwall moved toward her, Ixchel pushed them back. She fixed Mistress Poulin with a burning glare, as though she could sear through the layers of protective protestations and ignite the guilt within her.

“You have an opportunity right now to secure honest aid for those who remain,” she growled at the woman. “What is your measure? Greed, or good will?”

The woman’s shoulders were hunched, as though waiting for a blow to fall. Ixchel’s words hit her just as hard. “How…”

Ixchel lowered her voice. “I know what the Red Templars want with _people_ , madame. It has been months now that this quarry has been in their hands, yet you have not asked for outside aid. You have made a deal.”

“Because I had _no hope_ that aid would come!” Mistress Poulin exclaimed. “They are _terrifying_. They have powerful demons aiding them, and mages whose equal I have never seen! I fear the Elder One’s future, I dread it, but here…here it has seemed inevitable.” She gasped for breath, shaking in the aftermath of her confession. “Yes, I have been allowing the Red Templars to take certain citizens. In return for gold—and supplies—so that those who remained could live! By the time I realized what had been happening, there were already so many orphans in Sahrnia. I had to protect them..,” She trailed off and collapsed against the doorframe behind her. “If I had said anything, they would have intercepted the mail. We couldn’t run, with the river frozen and all the demons… Yes.” She stared coldly at the ground. “All we could do was survive. Now it’s come, hasn’t it? I was right.”

Ixchel’s knuckles ached from how hard she clenched her fists. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Solas and Dorian now restraining Cassandra and Blackwall in their fury. So she knew she would need to restrain herself.

“At what point would you have stopped sending them people?” she demanded. “When only the elderly were left? When only the children were left? When only you were left? Or would you have sold them all, maybe keeping one, to tell yourself that you were successful, that you did save at least one trace of Sahrnia?”

She bared her teeth viciously at the woman in a lopsided snarl. Poulin flinched away from the sight, no doubt sickened by the way the expression twisted the Inquisitor’s gruesome scars.

Ixchel raised a fist. “I will close the Fade rifts in the area to allow the Inquisition to evacuate the people left in the town. But you must tell your people the truth and accept their judgments. You have until I return.”

She turned on her heel and faced Blackwall, Cassandra, Solas, and Dorian. Cassandra’s face was white with fury, as was Blackwall’s, but Ixchel also saw the nausea born of his own guilt and haunted conscience. Solas and Dorian stared at her in open horror and shock. “Come,” she said. “We have no time to waste.”

-:-:-:-:-

“We’re not done,” Ixchel panted. “We can’t call it a night until—”

“We cannot continue like this!” Dorian interrupted. “ _You_ can’t! Every time you close a rift, you nearly fall over from the effort. The wind is picking up and there is _ice_ in your _hair_. We must head back to camp.”

Ixchel, doubled-over as she was with her hands on her knees, raised her head enough to glare at him in the evening murk. “I know we are almost there,” she insisted. “There is but one more.”

“You are being stubborn and foolish,” Cassandra said viciously. “I should know.”

The Inquisitor drew herself upright and adjusted her grip on her weapon. Her gauntlets had been slick with warm demon ichor, but it seemed to have frozen; each movement cracked the ice loudly. She knew her companions were not asking for anything unreasonable, but she was determined—almost desperate—to close the last rift beyond Valeska’s Watch. If she could simply do that, then they would have cleared a route for the townsfolk to escape. And her own party would have a clear route back to the initial Inquisition forward camp, if they could simply loop around—

She set her jaw and began stomping off through the snow again.

 _“Festis bei umo canavarum!”_ Dorian shouted into the wind behind her.

Solas made long strides to catch up with her. She turned her head partly to glare at him and partly to shield her face from the worst of the wind. “Going to lecture me, _hahren?”_ she asked. _“Vara u’em.”_

“The dreamless sleep has made you _dahn’direlan,_ ” he replied. “I could not stop you. But I will catch you when you fall, _rogasha'ghi'lan.”_

Ixchel winced at a particularly cold gust of wind came whistling down from the pass ahead. “That sounded far less condescending the last time you said it.”

Solas chuckled. “Here.” He tugged at the fabric wrapped around his midsection and drew closer to wrap it around her neck and head, then secured it over her mouth and nose. The fabric was warm and smelled strongly of him; it made her realize how badly frozen her cheeks were, as it was almost painful against her skin.

 _“Enaste,”_ she said, but it was muffled behind the scarf.

_“De da’rahn, dahn’direlan.”_

“Hey.” She glared at him, but it was defeated by the smile behind her scarf.

-:-:-:-:-

“If I see one more red lyrium growth,” Cassandra said ominously as they made their way down the mountain again. They had closed the last rift on the ridge, and now they were headed back to camp. Ixchel was stumbling, feet numb with cold; a Despair demon had caught her in a direct blast and for a few moments Ixchel had truly thought she were too far gone to even make it back to camp. Solas had handed her his staff to use as a walking stick again, while Dorian drew runes on a few rocks and handed them out to everyone to hold, so that their hands did not become frostbitten.

“ _Lethallan_ ,” Solas said suddenly, “I sense an artifact of our people.”

Her lips were numb as she nodded at him. He vanished into the snow before anyone could protest. “He’ll be fine,” she said through chattering teeth.

But she stayed up waiting for him to return long after they arrived at camp and warmed themselves. She sat by the fire, wrapped in blankets and shielded from the wind by a canopy, with Dorian’s enchanted rock held tightly to her chest in both hands.

Dorian returned from handing out more stones to scouts, and he sat down heavily beside her. He tucked her under his arm without inquiry, and she snuggled closer. “You’re an oven, Dorian,” she laughed.

“And yet it is still not nearly warm enough.” He chuckled. _“Cara, pretiousa mula,_ we have talked about burnout before. And yet here we are, nearly frozen.”

“Mule? Really, Dorian? Am I that ugly?”

He rubbed his hand up and down her arm vigorously. “ _Precious_ and _costly_ mule,” he corrected.

Ixchel sighed and leaned closer to put her head on his shoulder. It was almost effortless to slip into a comfortable closeness with him, especially here, especially now when her mind ran so ragged. In the moment, she was numb to her anger at being resurrected to relive such a harrowed life—but she sat there, eyes closed, suddenly overwhelmed with every feeling she had denied introspection because it had hurt too much to think of Dorian. Now, she could not help it.

It was a tidal wave: all the emotions and moments from when they were the best of friends, the closest confidants and companions, all the things that she had been depriving herself not only since she had fallen out of the Fade a second time, but even for years prior to her death. She had not asked him to stay; she had not asked him if she could go with him, for _the world needs him, who am I to ask?_ She had been denying herself, and punishing herself, for so long that this momentary lapse could have sent her to the grave twice-over with grief.

If he were surprised by how easily she relented and responded, he did not voice it. Instead, he simply continued to rub her shoulder and hold her close. “Are you alright, Ixchel?” he asked.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so cold,” she told him, and her voice was wetter than she would have liked.

He scoffed. “My head is not so far up my own ass to not see that we are both reluctant to let people care for us,” he replied. “For all my love of mirrors, it’s hard to look at one, isn’t it? Hush, yes, I know, _‘with a face like this’ blah blah.”_

She snickered, then sighed. “Yeah. I… I don’t know what it is.”

“Are you so certain you would be good at the Game? That was an awful lie. I’ve been a port in the storm enough before,” he said in a lower, more serious voice. “One can hardly blame you for such a fear, being the great holy hope for all of Thedas. Everyone has their needs of you, and they’ll take what they can get and leave, no?”

Ixchel’s breath hitched. She swallowed.

“Everyone leaves, don’t they?” he mused. “You can face down a dragon, but it’s an entirely different beast, asking someone to invest in you.”

“It’s gauche,” she replied sourly. “You don’t ask. You wait.”

“Of course.” He sighed. “Well, you can ask me, Ixchel.”

Ixchel reached up beneath their many layers and fingered the crystal she still wore around her neck. The truth hovered behind her teeth, but she did not allow it to escape.

“Thank you, Dorian,” she said. “I will try.”

:-:-:-:-

Long after Dorian had retired to his nest, Ixchel stayed up by the fire. She stared meditatively into the flames, and it was in a strange state of waking sleep that she felt the pull again—not only did she feel it in her being, she felt it in the Anchor, too, distinctly.

She _knew_ he was near.

Ixchel turned her head and found him entering the camp seemingly unnoticed even by the watch. He was bundled tightly in his robes, cloak pulled tight and low over his face, but she knew him from his loping gait. He moved directly and linearly toward her, as though pulled by the same feeling. When he finally reached her side, she looked up at him and found his pale, angular face shadowed in the depths of his hood so much like the ancient Elvhen she had met, it nearly struck her off-balance.

He pulled a tattered book out from the depths of his robes and handed it to her. “I found a small Dalish camp,” he said quietly. “They were all dead. Exposure. It seems that they were caught unaware by the sudden freeze.”

Most of the journal’s pages had been ripped out, but enough remained intact for her to quickly ascertain the evidence for what they had said. “The Cradle of Sulevin?” she wondered aloud. “I have never heard of it. If lives were lost for its story, I would have us learn and tell it.”

Solas hummed softly behind his cloak.

“You are avoiding sleep, _lethallan_ ,” he said.

“What’s the difference if I sleep or not, if I am left just as exhausted and bruised as the day previous?” she asked dourly.

“Your mind can play tricks on you if not given a chance to rest. Even if it does not recuperate much during that time, at least it is not occupied.”

“Have you even tried these yourself?” she asked. She did not try to accuse, because she knew the answer already, and in the end it didn’t matter. He pitied her for it, and he felt guilty for providing it. Ixchel bit her lip. “It’s the transition that’s the worst,” she said. Her mouth continued to move, almost before her mind caught up: “It feels like deathroot. And then it feels like waking from death.”

Solas looked down at her again, but she could not read his expression in the shadows cast by the fire.

“That’s because it is.”

Ixchel blinked at him.

Then she blinked at him again.

And then she burst into tears.

He was kneeling in front of her at once, grasping her by the arms as she collapsed in on herself. She buried her face in her hands to stifle her sobs, but the knowledge he had just given her had reignited a series of interconnected tragedies. She had not thought—had not _allowed_ herself—to dwell on the panic the sleep paralysis brought with it. She had buried her anger and the ghost of the pain of _living_ after having _died_.

The Anchor in her palm flared wildly, an explosive burst of energy that pushed them apart. It felt bruising against her face, and she grabbed at her elbow to stop the pain as it lanced up her arm. “No, no, no,” she sobbed.

She bowed over and did not fight as Solas tried to quell the Anchor’s outburst, while she tried to quell the emotions that had triggered it. But she could not. She could hardly open her eyes to see at all from how deeply despairing and regretful she was; there was seemingly no other outlet than her tears. She wept bitterly into her knees.

 _“Harellen ma’ghi’lem,”_ she admitted finally, her voice a rattling sob. She gritted her teeth, but the words wrenched out of her in furious, grieving gasps: “Deathroot? Again? Corypheus needs no Nightmare when my mind is such a terrible place to be.”

Solas was very still against her, but when she tried to pull her arm back from him, his fingers clamped down on her like a vice. It was almost painful, how tightly his nails dug into her skin. She felt panic and terror rise up in her, and the Anchor began to flare again. This time, there was no shooting agony, no magic associated with it—just a ghost-terror of her arm being taken from her—

Words continued to spill out of her, hysterical and broken. “What’s the difference, really?” she asked. “Dream-slain or real-slain? To be free of such awful feelings, unaware of danger?”

“Stop it,” he said.

“How can you be afraid of losing love if you can’t love in the first place?”

_“Stop!”_

_“I can’t!_ That’s the _problem!”_

Solas dragged her upright with a steel grip on her arms. Her knees were loose as he supported her entire weight with a strength that did not match his frame. She still could not see him clearly through the curtain of tears that still spilled down her face.

 _“Mala suledin nadas,”_ he urged in a hissing whisper. He shook her. _“Ixchel, telanadas.”_

Ixchel’s face crumpled again, lip wobbling wretchedly. For it was then that she knew she had been lying to herself for so long. _She did not trust him._ She could not trust him. She was too broken to ever do so again. Even worse, he seemed to have realized the hypocrisy of his words.

His grip on her loosened, and he slowly set her back on her feet, guided her back so that she could sit. And then he stepped away. She caught a glimpse of his face beneath his hood, as she blinked dumbly in the glaring light of the Anchor and the fire. Glistening tracks along his cheeks told her that he had given in to tears, for the first time since she had ever known him.

Ixchel held his gaze, though her eyes had filled with tears again and she could hardly control the spasming muscles in her face. She expected him to leave.

She whispered, more to herself than to him: “It’s not about _dying_ , it’s about being dead. About being able to uncurl myself from that tense hunch, huddle, waiting for the punches to land. So I do my best to be objective, hold my fears apart from myself, examine them, assess whether they are _rational_ or distorted by these dark shadows in my mind. If there is nothing to fear, to try to release the fear and just live. But it’s made so many other feelings seem so alien and distant I don’t know what to do with them.” Her whole body trembled. “Like I’m already Tranquil, and then the emotions come back and I can’t handle them. And then I’m just waiting for the _one_ that overwhelms me—”

 _“Stop,”_ he said again.

Ixchel clamped her mouth shut, but her trembling only got worse. She decided that she could not bear to watch him leave. The Nightmare had taken the sight from her, and she did not want to be refreshed. It was enough that she knew he would leave. It was enough that he was constantly pulling away any time he allowed her to draw a step nearer. She dropped her eyes to the ground and covered her head to cower from the anticipated blow.

“I’m sorry,” she said to her knees.

Solas took a deep breath. He released it just as slowly. In a moment that stretched into an eternity, she felt nothing except for the the warmth of the fire against her wet cheeks and the agonizing certainty that he was going to leave.

Solas crept closer and knelt at her feet. “I know there is no wisdom that will heal this wound in you,” he said.

She swallowed. “I’m so broken,” she whispered.

A soft whine escaped him, and he reached for her hands. He held the tightly, his skin cold against her heated palms. They clung to each other, so tight their bones protested, but neither let go. “ _Telanadas_ ,” he said. “ _Telanadas_. You have been so brave. You have been so strong. _Mala suledin nadas._ We both know you can. Today is not the day.” As he spoke the words, words he had heard her say, heard Cole repeat, he seemed to suddenly find the answer to another question he had not known to ask. His grip tightened even further. “ _Ixchel_ , you are… _you_. There is no one in the world who could not want to help you. But they cannot know if you do not let anyone in, if you do not ask.”

“I don’t want to _need_ help,” she rasped. "And what help could they offer?"

“No one is strong enough to walk through life alone.”

“And sometimes, I’d rather die.”

They looked at each other then, troubled mirrors with all the same cracks. She knew he had said _they_ instead of _we_. She saw her fears reflected back in him, deeper but just as dark. They looked at each other, and they both understood what an impasse they were at.

 _“Mala suledin nadas,”_ she told him weakly, a peace offering.

 _“Mala suledin nadas,”_ he repeated. “No more herbs. We will find another way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Festis bei umo canavarum!” - Tevene: you will be the death of me!  
> Hahren - respected elder  
> Vara u’em - leave me alone  
> Dahn’direl - one who punches bees (idiotic person who does harm to themselves in a silly way)  
> Rogasha’ghi’lan - brave guide/leader/teacher  
> Enaste - blessings (thank you)  
> De da’rahn, dahn’direlan - It was a little thing (no problem), dumbass  
> “Harellen ma’ghi’lem,” - I am lead by the liar / a liar leads me  
> “Mala suledin nadas,” he urged in a hissing whisper. He shook her. “Ixchel, telanadas.” - Now you must endure. Ixchel, nothing is inevitable.


	46. Deadly Desires

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic rec today is "Looking Glass" by Feynite... Last updated in 2016...but a work of art nonetheless and no less deserving of all attention and praise.
> 
> That which you do not heap upon my own work, that is ;)
> 
> 11/17/20

One by one, Ixchel’s friends joined them by the fire.

Ixchel tried to keep her chin up, but the knowledge that the entire camp had likely heard her exchange weighed heavily on her shoulders. She was glad, at least, that most of her forces were scattered about the forward camps—only Harding and Leliana’s scouts remained. Yet that was no less mortifying and disheartening.

“I’m sorry,” she said to each of her friends as they arrived.

They simply stared at her in response, at a loss.

Finally, she put her head in her hands. “I know all of you care. I know all of you want to help. I don’t know how you can. I don’t—” she took a shaking breath “—even know what’s _wrong.”_

For a long while, no one spoke.

“Well,” Blackwall said. He winced even as he spoke, as though breaking the silence hurt like breaking through a pane of glass. “It sounds like you’re afraid of a future where you end up alone. A future you don’t know will come to pass.”

Ixchel felt like she had rocks in her throat and mouth. She worked her jaw around more tears. “I’m _certain_ of it,” she whispered into her hands.

“How can you be certain of anything?” Cassandra snorted. “Have we not learned, time and time again, that we cannot anticipate the designs of our fate?”

“It keeps happening,” she replied hollowly. “Does that not mean enough?”

“Patterns can be broken,” Dorian said.

No one could meet each other’s eyes; hypocrites, all.

“What a merry band of misfits we are,” Dorian sighed. “But Solas is right. You are who you are, Ixchel. And though I’m not of a certain persuasion, I’m not a fool—there is nothing about you that is repulsive in the slightest.”

She shook her head slowly. In the silence that followed, she could hear every snowflake melting on her clothes. She could hear the beat of Solas’s heart, pounding in his chest as though he had run a marathon. She could hear dragon wings stirring the air ten miles away.

The world waited for her to speak.

“I…care,” she said, “and I see. I see each of you, with the worthy paths you walk. Someday, our paths will diverge. And who am I to keep you from your destinations if I believe they are as honorable as my own?” She had hoped her voice would get stronger as she spoke, but it only sounded more wretched. “Neither can I leave my path while I live and breathe. My duty is one that will never be done, _because_ I see, and _because_ I care. And so my duty is all I have, and it’s _hard_ , and I have to be the one to _lead_ , to set the example. I am always alone in my decisions, even if there are those who follow.” She coughed bitterly to disguise a sob.

“You walk the _din’an’shiral,”_ Solas said from within the depths of his hood.

Ixchel’s veins ran as cold as the Elfblood. She squeezed her eyes shut against the renewed flood of her tears. She could not breathe, like a knife between her ribs would prick her on every inhale. She could not think of that word, hear that word, without that feeling surfacing. The Anchor flared, not so violently, just a spark.

“What is that?” Cassandra asked.

“A journey to the end.” Solas spoke in a monotone, even, devoid of rhythm or rhyme. It left his voice cold and dead, made his words impersonal. But of course, Ixchel knew that they were _intensely_ personal, and no matter how well-crafted the mask, she saw through it all. “‘The end,’ a goal so set in stone it negates everything on the journey. But it is a path you must walk in solitude forever. You must deny yourself of everything you desire, lest you betray yourself—your dedication.”

His face was hidden from her by his hood; she wondered if tears still streaked down his cheeks, perhaps froze there, like icicles from his chin in the cold.

Another heavy silence fell between them all; no one dared breathe to break it.

Ixchel sniffled.

“A self-fulfilling prophecy,” Blackwall murmured. “If your duty doesn’t end, you can’t leave, sure. But you wouldn’t ask anyone to join you?”

Ixchel found herself looking at the opaque top of Solas’s hood far too intently. Seemingly sensing the attention, he looked sharply away into the darkness. “We spoke of other paths,” he said, voice lowered so only she could hear. _“Tel’harellen ma’ghi’lenas.”_

“It’s a sick circle,” Ixchel agreed with Blackwall. She dug her nails into her scalp, then down her face, tugged on the deepest of her scars. “ _I’m_ sick. I don’t know,” she said again, “how to fix it.”

It was Cassandra who stood and closed the distance between them, as she came to sit beside Ixchel. The Seeker took Ixchel’s hands in her own.

“Then we treat it as we would treat any lifelong handicap,” she said gently, but with a finality that left no room for argument. “The Iron Bull has lost an eye, and found a way to live and fight just as well without it. But he still has us look out for his blind side, just in case. You know you do not see the world clearly, and you are obviously well-practiced in remembering that, most of the time. It is good for us to know this, Inquisitor. We can look out for your blind sides, just in case.”

Ixchel did not resist when Cassandra pulled her into a hug. It would have been amusing, the metaphors which the Seeker turned to, if it did not so clearly speak to Ixchel’s warrior heart.

And yet she cynically wondered what difference any of it would make.

“You don’t seem Tranquil,” Dorian said suddenly. “It is _normal_ to have low lows, Ixchel. I admit that you seem to have problems scooping yourself back out of the depths. I agree with Cassandra on those points. But it also seems to me you don’t _allow_ yourself to have high highs in exchange—even the most fleeting.” He gestured with his elbow at her, his hands still tucked under his armpits to keep warm. “However distant you might feel from them, your feelings do matter. As irrational as they might seem. They matter to those who care about you. We can help you practice them, so you feel less alien when you do have the time to indulge.”

He wrinkled his nose at her. “I am quite aware that I am the pot calling the kettle black,” he added in a dry voice. “But how about it?”

“Each of us carries a guilt of some kind. We cling to it as a certainty, and use it as a shield against the unknown,” Blackwall said. “We, more than most, stand on the precipice of change… Perhaps it is right that we cast those weights aside to move forward.”

Ixchel reached out with a hand for him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he clasped her hand gently in both of his own. She stared at him, throat swollen to the point of speechlessness. With every second that passed, she ached all the more. _Thom, Thom, Thom,_ she pleaded. _I’m proud of you._

And like that, one by one, they excused themselves again—likely not to sleep, but to contemplate, and gather themselves for the day ahead.

“Where’s Cole, I wonder?” Dorian asked before he wandered off.

Ixchel pondered that with a frown. If there had ever been a moment in which she needed the spirit, wouldn’t it have been any of the moments of the past several hours…? Guilt lanced through her. There were so many slaves, and sick ones, too. Perhaps he was staying with them, protecting _them_ from the Nightmare.

At last, Solas stirred from where he still sat on the ground. He drew himself up painstakingly, then held his hand out for her. “Sleep with me. I will find you, and we will build a sanctuary if we can. Even a few hours will help you.”

He held her hand but did not lace their fingers together—and she recognized it for what it was: a chaste touch to guide, but not an invitation. Not for either of them. She kept her head down as he led her to his tent, and she stood, dizzy and weary, as he set up his bedroll and began stripping away the layers of his robes. When he turned to her, she realized belatedly that she still wore her full armor from the day, and she began fumbling at clasps with numb fingers.

Solas batted her hands away gently and began removing the armor himself with nimble fingers. As she stood, head still bowed to avoid his gaze, she recognized in him the experienced warrior that seemed so out of place with his mastery of magic and the Fade. She wondered what the wars of his youth were like. He was so familiar with its unseen scars and philosophies, and he put her armor on and helped her take it off with well-practiced hands.

When the last of her armor was piled on the floor, she toed out of her boots and followed him to bed. They were already painfully familiar with the process, finding the perfect way she fit in his arms, bundling together to keep warm. She rested her hand on his chest again, over his heart, so that the Anchor beat in time with his pulse. But he did not hold her hand, and instead he gathered her by her elbow—securing her closer, more sheltered in his arms, but unwittingly reminding her of all that she had yet to lose.

Falling asleep with the herbal concoction felt like having a trapdoor opened from underneath her, into the Buried Sea. In Solas’s arms, she drifted to sleep more peacefully than she had in several weeks.

Her defenses had to have been rusty, because she did not even have the chance to shape the Fade at all before he infiltrated it. He had been waiting for her, perhaps; or, he was more forceful with his entry, she could not tell. Everything about her dream was blurred, as though she still gazed at the world through a lens of tears.

Everything here was green and shifting—that, she could tell. But when she first felt him arrive, she turned to look, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if she were looking at a wolf or a man. He drew closer, then, and she saw he was dressed all in gray, with a thick wolf pelt draped over his shoulders.

Ixchel restrained herself from reaching for it.

Everything blurred again, and they were hooded, both in white, and he was leading her through a grand golden hall. There were figures all around, shrouded in exquisite fabrics, pure magic, and even light itself; vegetation grew in perfect symbiosis with the architecture, just as Taven had surmised, except more artfully than any mortal mind could have imagined.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do if Mythal suddenly approached them from among the figures, for certainly, this was a day at court in Elvhenan.

“You are smart, _lethallan_ ,” he told her with a hint of weary humor. “You may know when we are, but _where_ are we?” He gently shepherded her to a portal that was shaped like an eluvian, but was a physical portal out into a garden that was vast as a forest. He tilted his head slightly and breathed deeply. “It is a maze. A curiosity, a diversion.”

“A literal maze,” she echoed.

“Time was inconsequential in Elvhenan. I’m certain you can extrapolate.”

“So an _endless_ maze.”

He glanced down at her from within his hood, and there was the sparkle she had missed—the sparkle she had taken from him, with all her dark talk. Her own smile faltered.

“A living maze,” he added. “I have walked it…many times. At any moment, I could move us to a far end, and we would still be lost in the maze. Solving it requires an understanding of how things _grow_ on such a level that no young, fat, sadistic fearling could hope to achieve. Let it grapple with the wit of our People, Ixchel. I dare it.”

His words lit a fuse in her that burned and threatened to explode into tumultuous emotion if she did not pinch it out soon. At the very least, Ixchel wanted to reach for him again. Instead she reached for the foliage: a low-hanging tree whose leaves were as soft as lambskin, but golden. She rubbed the leaves between her fingers, then dipped her face to brush them against her cheek.

They curled against the warmth of her skin like a lover’s touch.

“You are younger here,” she told Solas.

“A young man’s ego urged me to solve this maze,” he admitted.

Ixchel turned back to him, her eyes dropping to his feet. Beneath his white cloak, she could see the golden toes of Sentinel armor. “It is a wonder,” she said. “I am sorry to tarnish it, Solas. _Ir abelas, ma falon.”_ She shivered. Like all things, words came more easily to her in the Fade, complex emotions summed up so simply: “I don’t want to tarnish you.”

 _“Vir or val'las elan ema revas i elan ea ina'lahn'ehn, y ely laimem vir,”_ he replied gently, and in his voice she heard all of his age resonate: it was not the voice, nor the words, of the young man who had walked this maze.

“Guide me,” she whispered.

A soft breath escaped him, nearly a chuckle, but not quite. “The blind cannot lead the blind,” he replied. “But I can show you the maze.”

-:-:-:-:-

For the first time in weeks, Ixchel woke energized and nimble. She did not have a moment of panic where she felt as though she had lost an arm, and then remembered she had one, and then realized she could not feel it. She did not have a sudden surge of pins-and-needles in her limbs as feeling returned, and neither did she have a sudden surge of emotion as all the events of the previous day and the events to come returned to her. She had been emoting all night, after all.

She did, however, feel morbid and guilty for waking in Solas’s arms after all she’d forced him to endure of her.

_Endure. Endure._

How many times had she heard that?

_Endure. Endure._

He had never asked such a terrible thing of her, then; she had to grant him that.

But the world had. The world continued to do so. Why? _Why?_ Why, when she knew it was futile? She had asked him so many, many times, in so many ways. She had never been given an answer. Perhaps he did not have one for himself.

Ixchel’s eyes grew misty as she asked another question:

_Did you look for me when I left?_

She slipped carefully out of Solas’s arms and went to pick up her armor. He slept deeply still, perhaps taking some time for himself in the Fade, and she watched his peaceful face with tears rolling down her cheeks.

_Did you scour the worlds for me, as I did for you, ma vhenan?_

_Did the betrayal taste the same, when I walked a path you could not follow?_

-:-:-:-:-

They returned to Sahrnia. Ixchel tamped down on her fury and disgust and heard the judgment of the remaining citizens: Mistress Poulin would serve them all, and use her ill-gotten money and her skills to coordinate the reconstruction and rebuilding of the town once the Red Templar threat had been dealt with. She accepted their terms and watched them leave, escorted by Inquisition soldiers.

She met with Harding and one of Cullen’s lieutenants to discuss the previous day’s efforts at rooting out Templars in the hills. They had been largely successful, though it sounded like there was a force amassing for a retributive strike.

“It makes sense,” she mused. “So-called ‘Knight-Captain’ Carroll should be arriving any day now to inspect the mines. That is where we’ll investigate today. I’ll need a striker squad to follow us. I anticipate a large number of civilians will need some heavy cover to escape.”

“Here’s what we’ve gathered looking for Rifts,” Harding said, handing her a rolled-up sheet of paper. “That, and this. Inquisitor, might I introduce Ser Michel de Chevin?”

Ixchel tucked the Rift-catalogue under her arm and extended her hand for the knight. “I imagine you’re here to restore some lost honor, Ser,” she said wryly. “Who would you ask that I help you trap?”

“A powerful demon,” the golden young man replied. “Desire. This one calls itself ‘Ishmael,’ and has settled in Suledin Keep up in the hills. Imshael is free because I made a mistake. I will see him destroyed. Unfortunately, quite a number of Red Templars guard the keep.”

She nodded at him. “Join us in storming the quarry, then we will assist you.”

“I am happy to serve Orlais,” he said.

“Oh hush, boot-licker,” she said, swatting at him good-naturedly. He _pouted_. “Fight with people who appreciate you. It’s good you’re serving Orlais here in the quarries and towns, rather than playing the damn Game of the lions.”

A soldier chuckled and spat behind her. She raised a fist appreciatively. “Don’t tell the Ambassador,” she called to him.

Michel blushed a little, flustered at the ribbing. “C’mon, Ser. We have an operation to thwart, end of the world to avert, and so on.”

“You are in remarkable spirits, my dear,” Dorian sang in an awe-struck voice.

“Take the highs where they come,” she said, but she had a feeling that her voice was simply going to grow higher and higher with every falsely flippant remark. She felt terrible, truly, for all that had transpired the previous night. She felt like a child. She _hated_ feeling like a child, but wasn’t that what she was? An awkward living thing not old enough to understand how to continue living? Not strong enough to master her emotions?

She recalled Solas’s earnest distress at her words; it had been her words, not merely the emotions they spoke of. And he had not been allowed a reprieve of her, even in his dreams, except at the very end when she allowed herself to wake. She wondered what he had done then. Had he stayed in Arlathan, among all that was bright and beautiful? Or had she stirred something in him—one of the dark things she had been so desperate to tamp down before they summoned the end of the world in his wake?

It occurred to her, then, that she did not know who was poison for whom.

For it was his voice in her heart that whispered, with the beat of her heart: _futile._

But in a way, she was a shattered reflection of him, a looking glass into the ruin he always left in his wake.

His face was closed off to her when she sought it out among the crowd. He had taken to wearing his hood up, obscuring his face and particularly his eyes from her, and she knew that it was a deliberate choice that had nothing to do with the weather.

She swallowed, then redirected her attention to Dorian. “Desire demons, Dorian?”

“What, because I am _Tevene_?” he asked, as bored as she’d ever heard him fake. She raised her eyebrows as he matched paces with her to walk at her side. “Well, I did happen to best one, once. The first time I entered the Fade, in fact. It looked like a lovely castle filled with gold and silks. I met a desire demon, as I recall, and we chatted and ate grapes before he attempted to possess me.”

Michel was clearly tense at the back of their group. “Do not peel away, Ser,” she called out to him. “We will deal with your demon. Never fear the wicked Magister."

Cassandra moved a little closer to Michel, her hand resting easy—but obviously—on the pommel of her sword to reinforce that Michel did not have much of a choice.

Ixchel tried to recall all that she remembered about Imshael. She had known precious little about the Forbidden Ones when she had slain him the first time, unimpressed with one another. He had not been pleased that she did not offer her desires to him, and she had not been interested in the choices he had to offer. So she had bested each of his forms and all his fearlings. It was only years later that she began to ask questions about that strange _Spirit_ , as he had insisted, and she had searched the whole world for tales.

Mahariel of course had told her some of Gaxkang, the Unbound, a Revenant. They had wondered if he had been Desire or Pride, or something else once. It had led her down a winding hole—literally, into the damn Deep Roads again—in search of the Forbidden Ones and the true nature of the ancient Elvhen…

Varric had been the one to go with her, for he had encountered Xebenkeck with Hawke.

She had likewise heard whispers in the Vir Dirthara, and Morrigan had heard whispers from the Well, about the Formless One, the first to be cast down: one of Dirthamen’s own.

Briala and Michel had each told her some of Imshael, but none of it had helped; Briala had remained bitter and uninterested in the past _truths_ , only parables, while Michel was so stupidly _shem_ he had no insights into anything beyond the Chantry’s veneer of demons and desires.

She wondered now who the Spirit had possessed. She wondered if it had been a reasonable choice. She wondered, as she cut through Red Templars, what choices it might have to offer her now.

They drove the Templars out of the quarry, presumably to retreat to Suledin Keep. The Inquisition forces only suffered one casualty, but had taken many Red Templars for the price. She ordered their bodies searched, then destroyed; it turned out, then that Knight-Captain Carroll had not been among the dead. However, Knight-Captain Fornier was, and in his belongings were several incriminating notes about Mistress Poulin. Ixchel held them out over her shoulder—and then realized something, when no one plucked the papers out of her hands.

Many of the slave carts had been dashed aside, their locks broken as though they had recently been full and then emptied. But there was no sign of the Compassion that would have done such a thing, in the middle of the Red Templar camp.

Ixchel turned her eyes toward the distant red spires of lyrium that defiled Suledin Keep.

“Your Worship! We’re ready to rendezvous with the other teams to storm the Keep,” a lieutenant said.

Ixchel’s steps were purposeful, almost panicked.

They had Cole.

What terrible choices was Imshael going to have her make?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Tel’harellen ma’ghi’lenas.” - a liar leads you / you are led by the liar  
> Ma falon - my friend (true friend)  
> “Vir or val'las elan ema revas i elan ea ina'lahn'ehn, y ely laimem vir,” - from “The Great Dictator” - The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way.


	47. The Enemy of Free Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I just want to say specifically how cathartic it is to write this fic, as dark as it can be! And particularly so because of your responses. Thank you!  
> 11/19/20

* * *

“A tidy operation you’ve led, Inquisitor,” Ser Michel said to her after she’d finished conferring with the lieutenant and their squad leaders outside of the Keep walls. Her skin was crawling with anxiety: where was Cole? Was he hurt? What would Imshael do to a young Compassion? But she mustered all of her willpower to turn to Michel and keep her composure, at least visibly.

“So many holdings, so many decisive strikes. Whatever reason Imshael has for allying with the Red Templars, he is likely going to drone on about how many interesting choices you’ve made to get to this point.”

Ixchel’s jaw clenched, then relaxed. “He has my friend captive,” she told him coldly. “I will not be _distracted_ by flattery, if that is what you imply.”

She turned on her heel and sought out her small band. She gathered them close, then stood, shoulders squared, hands behind her back, looking up at the ruined edifice of the keep. “He has Cole,” she told them. She felt the immediate flare of tension behind her, and surprisingly—relievingly—not all of it came from Solas. “We will face many terrible things in this place, but we cannot lose Compassion. I will not be proud of a movement without Compassion.”

“We sent one man up the walls to take a peek” Harding said, coming to her elbow. “They’ve got giants in there. Plenty of Red Templars. Not as many Venatori as I’d expected, given the weird magic weather.”

“It’s the climate, Lace,” Dorian sighed.

Scout Harding shivered in agreement.

Ixchel contemplated it again—this one-time fortress of her people. How old was it? Did it predate the fall of Arlathan? Had it been a ruin even when her people reclaimed the Dales? Or perhaps Ameridan had walked here, side-by-side with Drakon.

The Inquisitor unhooked her axe. With the haft in two hands, she tossed it, spun the blade to catch the light. _I’ll choose you, Cole_ , she thought willfully, though she had no idea if he would hear her.

She did her best not to stand too close to Solas, or to even remember his presence, frankly. If a years-starved Regret from the bottom of the lake in Crestwood had been so attracted to him, she did not want to risk bringing Imshael’s attention to him. Let the ancient demon quarrel with her, while her people took aim. Or prey upon Michel and his honor. Anything, but taunt Fen’Harel about his choices—or present him with new ones.

Her stomach churned as she led her militia through the keep, slaughtering giants and lyrium-crazed Templars as they went. Every corner she rounded, bile rose into her throat in anticipation of discovering Cole in some state of grave injury, or a trap fed by Fen’Harel’s fears. Mostly, all she found were more giants and snow.

“In this weather, I am glad for my armor,” Cassandra muttered.

Ixchel might have agreed, but her blood ran too cold in her breast. The air burned her throat, it was so cold, but the lyrium in it burned her too. It seared at her mind, in the background, and she found herself drawing Solas’s scarf tighter around her as though to block it out with her ears. Of course, it did nothing to help, for she didn’t hear it with her ears.

 _“They want to grow big so they can kill everything,”_ Cole had once told her about giants. She wondered where they had come from. Maybe they were a wretched experiment of Ghilan’nain. Perhaps Elgar’nan had sired them with some beast, implanted his fury in them. Or perhaps they simply wanted to grow, as all living things did. As the lyrium did.

She was ever so glad to have a small army at her back when she entered a courtyard _filled_ with Behemoths.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a giant approaching, and she left the main quarrel immediately. With her axe outstretched, she charged between its legs and severed tendons in its ankles, sending it to the ground well out of reach of her men. Of course, that left her right in _its_ reach, alone.

 _Tremble at the ice-troll Hryngnar,_ she found herself thinking, in time with the beat of the lyrium’s song. _Guard your gaze against his wrath. Dead to dreams as dwarves below us, fools in folly block his path._

She rolled, head-first, in the snow to put as much space between herself and the giant as she could. She ducked around a corner to avoid a hunk of rubble it threw in her direction.

More courtyards full of stone guardian wolves. More Behemoths and Shrieks. The Keep had felt so much emptier, so much more like a park, or a place of reverence, almost, the last time she had been here. Served her right, she supposed, for trying to get this over with quickly. Why _had_ she thought to drive them all back here? Now she had to deal with so many of them at once.

At last she reached the approach to Imshael’s courtyard. She gestured for her captains to wait. With a tilt of her head, she summoned her inner circle with her. “Where’s Michel?” she asked.

“Gravely injured,” called a soldier. “We shall take him back to the camp!”

“Tell him not to worry.”

She kept her back to her companions and closed her eyes for a moment to center herself. “I feel a Rift,” she said quietly. “A big one. And so. Much. Lyrium.”

Dorian swore under his breath, then sighed. “To exert and sustain such a manipulation of nature—yes, it would make sense that they’d need a large power supply,” he agreed. “Will you be alright to handle it?”

She nodded.

“Will you be alright to handle the demon?” Cassandra asked.

Ixchel did not hesitate to nod, even though she was far less certain.

The enormous rift glistened behind him like a strange jewel, and Ixchel could see red lyrium on both sides, and snow. Her pulse fluttered in time with the lyrium song, which was strangely louder here in the green light of this massive rift. She could suddenly recognize that it wasn't _sick_ , it was _sad_. No wonder she could hear it so well. Wasn't she both?

As she approached, Imshael raised one cool eyebrow at her, above eyes that bear dark circles beneath them. She wondered again whose body this was, or if it were a mimicry, and either way what choice had left its face so haunted?

"Hello, Imshael," she said.

Imshael looked her up and down and up again, centered on Dirthamen's crown. She had the deeply infuriating sense that he saw all the terrible choices she had made as though they were veins of lyrium standing out through her skin, through her armor, bright and blistering.

"Yes, you _would_ know me, Champion," Imshael said with a tinge of amusement. Her heart protested in her ribs, now out of a fear that Imshael saw more than merely the choices she had made, but rather also the consequences.

"Where is Compassion?" she asked, tense.

"Spirits make such **boring** choices. Do you really think I would kill Compassion for simply doing as Compassion does?" Imshael scoffed.

"Yes, if he interfered with whatever you planned," Ixchel replied. "I asked where he is."

"And not what I've planned?"

Ixchel fixed him with a serious, tired look. "No. There are bigger things coming."

That seemed to give him pause. He stared at her with renewed interest.

_"Where is Cole?"_

"He is alive," Imshael promised. "They're funny, these Red Templars. Give them enough lyrium and they stop caring about Mages and Demons. But they're still Templars. Rather hard to vanish on them."

Ixchel took a single step forward. "What do you want?"

"Would you make a deal with me, I wonder?" Imshael smiled then, all glittering teeth and dark eyes.

"Inquisitor—" Cassandra began, but Imshael tutted.

 _These_ are your friends? They're very violent. I wonder if they’re heroes or murderers—it’s so very hard to tell."

"It rarely hurts to listen," Solas said, voice low—it startled Ixchel, how it was the closest thing to a growl she had ever heard from him. " _Trust_ is another matter entirely."

Imshael chuckled, but fortunately his eyes remained glued on the tangled nest of choices that was her own broken heart, rather than let his attention be drawn to the Dread Wolf. "Oh, but _doesn't_ it hurt to listen?" Imshael asked Ixchel darkly. Then, he looked away and held up a hand apologetically. "That is not my job, of course. I am merely kin to Regret."

"You are kin to many," she allowed. "What deal would you offer?"

"I will tell you where Compassion is kept, but you must tell me what is coming." Imshael held his hands out. “Or, of course, we can fight to the death. Will you choose to keep your secrets?”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. "I must have Cole in sight before I tell you," she said.

"Reasonable," Imshael allowed. "Very well. The choice is made. The deal is struck." He smiled again, unnervingly plastic in its veneer. "Follow the Crystal Grace, Inquisitor. It seemingly leads to a solid wall, but look _closer_. In the cave, below this keep, there is a place with with some...interesting qualities. One of which is that it is utterly soundproof."

"So the Templars posted in there won't know that we've destroyed their operation up here," Ixchel deadpanned. "Got it."

Imshael nodded.

"Very well. Solas, Blackwall, take some soldiers and fetch Cole." She kept her gaze fixed on Imshael. "Cass, Dor, stay with me."

The spirit hummed thoughtfully. "Trust _is_ another matter indeed," he murmured. "I suppose with all the choices _you've_ made, you might have learned that lesson...”

Imshael begin walking around her, assessing her in a different light than before. Then his eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. This was more threatening, as though he, like Envy, were about to jump at her and into her mind—still, he restrained himself, drew his sickly frame more upright. A choice of his own.

"You have so often chosen _not_ to have a choice." Imshael spoke more quietly than she expected. Perhaps the others would not hear, but perhaps that would not work so well in her favor. "But I can show you that a choice does not _always_ have to end in blood."

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “I don’t know that you could show me that,” she said. “And it matters very little. I’m trying, whether it’s possible or not.”

Imshael began to chuckle. "Oh, _da'len,_ what an interesting choice indeed." His chuckling became laughter that felt brittle and hollow. Now _here_ was a trickster who would chortle to himself in the far corners of the Void, if he ever found the perfect person and the perfect choice. Perhaps, once, he had. Though he had not seemed particularly drawn to Solas, if that were the case.

Then, his mirth shattered into icy gravity. "You need not _speak_ to tell me what is coming. I know what you are. And you know who I am," he said. "We Forbidden Ones, the Unbound? We who sought to shape the world after its destruction? You think I don't recognize blood magic, when I was one who taught the humans after the fall of Elvhenan?" His lip curled. "Your soul is stained with the blood of worlds twice over, Champion, and so many _terrible_ choices."

She realized then, as his form shifted in his Rage, that he was truly Unbound. Like Cole.

"You made the most terrible choice of all… You were too afraid of others’ choices to let them choose! So _you_ chose for them!"

"Stop it!" The voice was weak and full of agony and anger. She glanced behind her in time to see Cole as he entered the courtyard with Solas, Blackwall, and her soldiers. “ _You_ stopped letting other people choose, too!” Cole cried to Imshael. “You give them _your_ choices, and you have them make them for you!”

Ixchel took a step back warily as the demon grew agitated at Cole’s words, but Ishmael’s Rage did not close the space between them. He burned, blue and hot; she was aware of the barriers that had settled over her, of the swords that pointed at Imshael threateningly behind her. But for now, Ixchel was not afraid of a mere Rage demon. She took a deep breath, and she stepped forward once more.

“I fully admit to it,” she told Imshael. The demon’s burning rippled green, then red, and began to cool. “To choose requires Trust, and Hope. I had those taken from me, Imshael. I’m learning it all again.”

The cooled magma of its form turned black; frost began to deposit on its head and shoulders, crept up from the ground. The temperature around it in the courtyard dropped precipitously; it felt like ice shards in her nose and throat just standing so close to it.

The demon hovered and sank in the air. “Why? You already _know_ what choices are,” Imshael’s Despair hissed. “Some think they are opportunities. Some think they are a blessing, a sign of favor from the gods: free will. _We_ know better, don’t we, _da’len?”_ The hollow form beneath the rags of Despair rippled, dripped, howled: “Every choice is a tragedy. _Every_ choice leaves a dead world behind, blood on your hands.”

“And Corypheus will Blight the world,” she replied to it, “and will rob it of all choice in its path to doomsday. Does _he_ even _choose_ to do so? Is he not some base animal, clawing to the top of a mountain on vicious instinct alone? Is that why you follow, Imshael? Because _you_ are tired of choosing?”

She stared at Imshael, the black Void beneath the hood of his tattered robes. She stared into the Void, and it stared back, whispering something directly to her soul:

_Futile…!_

“I offer _you_ a choice, Imshael,” she parroted quietly, without a trace of humor. “Things don’t always have to end in blood.”

And the demon rose higher in front of the rift. Tattered rags stretched out into jointed legs that ended in hooked claws, and Imshael’s Fear loomed above her.

“Don’t they, Champion?” it snarled. Its features cracked.

The rift roared as fearlings poured out, and the battle began.

The fearlings in the waking world were more beetle-like than arachnid in their presentation, which gave _stomping_ on them a very satisfying quality as her boots broke through brittle shells. She was always aware of Imshael hovering in one corner or another, trying to avoid the spray of arrows that her archers positioned far outside the courtyard aimed at him.

The few remaining Red Templars hounded her and her companions as they tried to give chase to the demon, Shrieks and more Behemoths, but _mostly_ , Ixchel realized, Templars who had not yet been fully corrupted. She tried her best to shout at them in the melee, to beg them to stand down—but none did.

They knew they had made their choice, and they clung to it in the face of a new one.

Tired of making choices

Ixchel’s world suddenly turned sideways, and then upside-down. Imshael had phased out of the ground and caught her in its arachnid arms, and her axe went clattering to the ground as she was dragged up high into the air by her ankle.

She stared into Imshael’s face and saw nothing different than the Nightmare. Its skin, ravaged by time and self-mutilation, split anew as it snarled at her. She felt it leeching things away from her, so much like the Nightmare—and then its attention turned.

The gaping, bleeding sockets where it eyes should have been locked on to someone—

Ixchel struggled against its loosening grip. “NO!” she shouted at it. “Don’t you _fucking dare_ look at him!”

A blur of white, a blast of cold and Fade magicks—

Ixchel dropped head-first to the ground.

Arms crashed into her midsection, stealing all her air, and she went toppling into the carts of red lyrium with her attacker or savior. Bright splotches obscured her vision and searing pain in her head made it difficult to sit up, but she felt her hands settle on a barrier and not the bare lyrium. A hand grabbed her by the elbow, then yanked her upright. Her head swam, dipped into unconsciousness, then back. Hands were on her shoulders, shaking her, and a voice shouted over the ringing in her ears.

Ixchel grabbed on to Dorian, fisted her hands in his cloak, as he helped her stagger away from the wreckage of lyrium and wood and stone.

A white wolf dragged Imshael’s Fear to her, screeching and clawing, and though each of its needle-legs sank into the wolf’s fur and drew blood, the _massive_ wolf paid no heed. It chewed on Imshael a little in retribution, but then spat it at her feet.

Cole appeared at Amarok’s shoulder. Both of them were battered and severely injured, but something about them together at this moment seemed far more imposing than she had ever seen them.

“There is nothing wrong with choosing to die so others might _live_ ,” Cole told Imshael. “If _you_ die, so many Spirits will grow: Regret and Fear, but also Longing, and Introspection, and Empathy and even Compassion.”

“You are wrong,” Imshael rasped. The fighting was starting to die down around them, and its voice was growing quieter. “Empathy is the _enemy_ of free will. So long as there is a world to observe with empathy, the choice will be made for you. It is not a fun game.”

“Empathy, guilt, regret, fear,” Ixchel intoned. “Are they confines, or are they guides, Imshael? Can’t you _choose?”_

The demon drew a ragged breath.

“You named yourself,” he said, a slow question.

“Yes.”

“But you also decided what it _means.”_ A flicker of a smile twisted its cracked and bleeding lips. “Is that a confine? Is it a guide? _Can_ you choose, Ixchel?

“I have to believe,” she told it.

It laughed hoarsely. “No, not believe. Belief is not a choice. Belief is a state of _being_. _Hope_ is a choice.” The Fear demon reached for her, and as its skin began to disintegrate, she saw something bright and golden hidden beneath its being. _“Da’len,_ Hope is a Choice.”

“Today will not be the day we stop choosing,” she swore to it. She raised her hands to clasp its arm. “But today, you get to rest.”

Imshael looked up at her with hollow eye sockets. Yet even still, she felt its gaze full of something like Pride.

Cole raised his daggers, and in one motion, it was all over. Imshael’s golden sparks fluttered back into the giant rift along with the remains of his fearlings, and the battlefield was left in still and unmoving shambles. A silence fell over the place, broken only by the wet gasping breaths of the dying, the hum of the lyrium, and the crackling and twinkling of the Rift.

Ixchel slowly approached the latter.

More gently than she had ever thought she could, Ixchel closed the rift into the realm of Choice.


	48. Champion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/19/20

As soon as the rift was closed, Ixchel rounded on Cole and flung herself at him. The collision knocked all the breath from him, but his arms closed tight around her and he did not topple over as she might have if the situation were reversed. They staggered a little, then righted course.

“Are you okay?” she demanded. “You’re injured.”

“Yes,” he replied. “No worse than Cole.”

She choked on her breath. “Not as bad, though?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. His head tilted to the side, then he looked directly at Cassandra. Ixchel turned and found that while her soldiers were cleaning up the battlefield, her inner circle had gathered around her; Cassandra’s brow had furrowed, and now she looked at Cole with morbid curiosity.

Unfortunately, Cole obliged. “There were beatings. Worse. _‘Do you remember telling me no? You can’t do that now. The Tranquil can’t say no to anything.’ ‘If you tell anyone, I’ll say you used blood magic.’_ Not all Templars were like that. Not all, but enough. The good Templars were too afraid to stop the others. ”

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra gasped.

Ixchel shook him very lightly, once. “Not as bad?” she asked again, concerned.

His eyes slid back to her. “Not nearly,” he said. He plucked a particularly thick piece of ichor out of her hair, and he smiled. “I got all of them out, so the Red Templars were really mad. And I couldn’t help you, but I called to Amarok, and he came!”

Indeed, Amarok stood at Solas’s side, his mighty shoulders as tall as the elf’s chest. The white wolf’s otherworldly-blue eyes met hers, and then he bowed his head. He extended one paw, which was as big as a dinner plate, and he bowed low. She realized immediately it was an apology, a sign of servitude.

She reached for him without releasing Cole. “Don’t feel guilty, please,” she told him. He straightened up and nuzzled into her palm.

“What is going _on?_ ” Blackwall demanded.

Ixchel gave him a nervous smile. “Let’s go put up our flag, for the good people of Sahrnia to see, and then I’ll…try…to explain.”

They turned as a group, then parted, and allowed her to lead them. She knew as Harding brought her the Inquisition flag and Ixchel raised it over the keep, that she could probably not imagine the stories that would be told about her victory that day. How the Inquisitor reclaimed the fortress of her people, how she bartered for a Spirit’s life but also granted a Spirit a new life of its own, and how she raised her flag over the Emprise with a wolf at her side.

-:-:-:-:-

Under the Inquisition’s banner, looking out across the the Emprise, Ixchel told them what she knew about the Forgotten Ones.

“The ancient Elvhen had a far different relationship with Spirits than we do,” Ixchel began. “That’s what makes the Forbidden Ones stand out. What has survived in the tales of the Dalish is this: Xebenkeck, Imshael, Gaxkang the Unbound, and the Formless One, were dangerous demons who were exiled from the lands of our ancestors, and _forbidden_ from any Elvhen mage.” She looked to Dorian. “They are the demons that the ancient Somniari of Tevinter contacted while searching for answers, and power.”

“ _That_ was _that_ Imshael?” Dorian asked, mouth agape. “That’s rather…anticlimactic. Never meet your heroes, I suppose. I’m _kidding_ , Cassandra, Maker’s breath.”

“The Kirkwall Seekers of Truth were investigating them, the Forbidden Ones,” Cassandra said tersely. “They were trying to determine whether the Dalish ‘Forbidden Ones’ were the same as Forbidden Ones and Forgotten Ones in other mythology. How do _you_ know these things?”

“Warden-Commander Mahariel fought one—Gaxkang the Unbound. And Varric and Hawke fought Xebenkeck. And now we have fought Imshael.” She shook her head. “As the Avvar say, sometimes a god needs a good re-birthing. Cole thinks its essence will reform, in the distant parts of the Fade, as something new. Longing, Introspection, Empathy, Compassion…”

“It is difficult for me to believe such a monstrosity could ever hold any virtue,” Blackwall grunted.

Cole sat astride Amarok, weightless as he was, stroking the wolf between its ears. “He didn’t believe it anymore either,” Cole said, “but that doesn’t mean he didn’t hope he would.”

Solas looked away. He stood with his arms behind his back as he also looked out across the ravine. His hood was drawn close around him, but it stirred in the wind. Looking at him, Ixchel recalled the memory from the Vir Dirthara: the blazing forms of the Evanuris as they banished a howling spirit to the reaches of the Fade… In her mind’s eye, they were too bright to even look at, and she couldn’t count to see if Fen’Harel was among them.

A voice had rung out, stern but imperial, not Mythal, not Solas, but with a power to it even beyond what she had seen from them:

_"For abandoning the People in their time of greatest need, for casting aside form to flee to where the earth could not reach, we declare Xebenkeck and others of her ilk exiled from the lands of the Evanuris. Beware! Their familiarity with shape allows them to travel paths unaided. They may be bound, but only the protection of your gods will fully shield you from their malice. They are Forbidden from the land that is our right."_

“The Forbidden Ones, older than darkspawn, old as Arlathan, perhaps even older than that.” She sighed. “And still, Imshael didn’t have an answer…” She raised her eyes again, and she found Solas staring at her.

“Or perhaps he forgot,” Cole said.

Cassandra chewed the inside of her cheek meditatively. “That is profound,” she admitted, and she put her hand on Ixchel’s shoulder meaningfully. “You have done well here. I did not like you making deals with an abomination, but I trust your instincts.”

“Even worse, he was just a Spirit,” Ixchel said with a smirk. But she nodded. “Thank you.”

“It is sometimes the case that warriors wear weights to build extra strength,” Blackwall said. “Your burden isn’t a choice on its own, maybe, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t stronger for it in some ways.”

Cassandra smiled at Ixchel as Blackwall spoke. “Or it is Empathy, and Compassion you have inherently inside you,” said the Seeker. “Regardless, you cannot deny that it has given you a perspective few of us might hold. And it has made you a good leader.”

Ixchel bowed her head. “Thank you.” Then, she turned to face the courtyard below them. “You know, I think it’s time we all celebrate a victory for once. We’ve liberated Sahrnia and the Emprise. We deserve it.”

Dorian blew her a kiss and hooked his elbow in Cassandra’s. “We’ll see if we can’t find a cask of something fine for our dear Inquisitor, then. Come, Blackwall! Solas?” Solas didn’t respond, but that didn’t dampen Dorian’s mood. “Come join us when you’re ready, love,” he told Ixchel, and then he dragged his captive Seeker off.

Ixchel drew closer to Amarok and Cole and put her hands on both of them. “We should get you fixed up, boys.”

Amarok chuffed and shook a little. “The Inquisition needs the healers more,” Cole translated. “We’re Inquisition, too, Amarok. But I know what you mean. I agree.” He looked between Solas and Ixchel and looked a little uncertain. “We…need to sleep, to heal. But we can’t help you if we’re healing.”

Solas bowed his head. “Cole,” he said quietly. “Do not be concerned.”

Cole pressed his lips together very tight to keep whatever his thoughts were to himself. He nodded, and Ixchel had to bodily turn away to stop herself from venturing down the what-if path of how much Solas must resent needing to watch over her in the night. She did not need to guilt herself—she knew well enough that if he wanted to pull away, he would, even if it hurt her. Bastard, she thought, with no weight behind it.

“Then, before we rest, I want to show you something,” Cole said to Ixchel.

“Of course, Cole,” she said. “Ah, Solas… I’ll…see you later.”

He nodded, and then he left the ledge through a different exit and disappeared.

Cole and Amarok led Ixchel out of the Keep and around to a wall lined with Crystal Grace. Amarok stepped straight through the wall, and Ixchel followed him, into a a series of dark tunnels that led deeper and deeper into the belly of the Keep.

“I got all of the slaves out of their cages and then I distracted the Templars while the workers who were working escaped, but then there was too much _Templar_ happening so I couldn’t make them forget me,” Cole said from up on Amarok’s back. “When it was just them, I could hear your hurt. So could Imshael, so he came to ask me about you. I didn’t tell him anything, and he couldn’t read me because I’m _me_ , but we could both hear your hurt.”

Cole’s voice echoed around her, cold as the walls, but innocent as a child’s.

“You’re so bright, but getting brighter. But that means when the light goes out, it seems darker, and you can’t adjust.” Cole paused. “You know, I thought Solas seemed darker because he was hiding under a bushel, but I think really he’s just not as bright. I can’t tell if he wants to be.”

“I wish you could.”

Cole hung his head. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Ixchel sighed. “I don’t expect you to, so don’t feel badly for it.”

“Why is it you’re never confused, Ixchel?” Cole asked her.

“By you?”

Cole shrugged.

“I don’t know. Some of it is how I think of language. Cassandra is very rigid, but so is Common. I…ever since I started learning Elvhen, my thoughts have been more poetic.” She shrugged as well. “But I also just spend a lot of time thinking like you, I think, Cole. ‘How are other people hurting?’ and ‘How can I help?’ and ‘How might they be hurting themselves, or holding on to it, and why wouldn’t they stop?’” Ixchel smiled a little as Cole nodded vehemently, definitely seeing some of himself in her words. “Think of enough people in such a way and you start seeing patterns in how they behave. You speak tangled truths into patterns I recognize, Cole.”

It seemed to her that maybe Cole was blushing. Amarok’s tail swished with pleasure, low to the ground.

“But yes,” the Spirit continued, clearing his throat, “you are bright, and I heard you, and Imshael heard you. He was right—he could tell, just from _looking_ at you, because he knows blood magic so well, and he’s a Spirit, and Choice, and all those things. But the shape of your pain is self-inflicted, always, Ixchel. It doesn’t take long to see.”

His words caught her unprepared, hit her in a soft spot that hurt. She choked on her breath but did not splutter at him, because it was Cole, and he was never unkind, and he was right.

“I know,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “Your hurt asks a question I taught it, somehow, some _when:_ _why do you think hurting is who you are?_ It used to be because you thought you deserved it. Now you think it’s because the world has made you that way. But you want to believe the world can be better, so you choose to hope. Hope until the light goes out. Here it is.”

They came down the last flight of stairs onto a balcony very much like the Undercroft. She looked around in awe. Suddenly, she knew this had to have belonged to an Evanuris, and she wondered why there might be such a large cavern in their fortresses. “Whose?” she wondered aloud.

Cole did not answer as he slid off of Amarok’s back and went rooting around in some rubble. He returned with a small box carved from polished wood so black it seemed at first to be obsidian. Atop it was painted the stark white geometry she recognized; she had seen it on crates all across Elvhen ruins, never more than in the under chambers of Fen’Harel’s refuge. But she had seen it in Dirthamen’s temple on boxes that held great treasures, and it had been emblazoned on the statue of Fen’Harel in the Temple of Mythal, too.

Cole slid the lid of the box away and held it out for her to gaze upon the contents.

 _“He’ll remake the world to suit his desires,”_ Cole whispered, as though afraid someone might overhear in this sound-proof chamber. _“His chosen to reign.”_

Ixchel reached out and ran her fingers over the flowers. They were beautiful and varied in shades of orange and red, like a sunset, and their leaves were not green but gold. They felt like the leaves she had seen in Solas’s dream—so soft that they might be skin against her skin. And beneath them, she could feel the lyrium running through the veins of their delicate petals, but they were organic, not only magic and not stone.

She looked up at Cole with wide eyes.

“There was a Spirit,” he said. “It watched you in the Emerald Graves. It saw your choice and your promise. It met me here and told me it had seen you. It said this needed to be for you, but it said other things, too: _‘deviating from the plan. No accounting for whimsy. Small differences lead to fatal consequences. I’m sorry’_ and _‘pulling back the curtain. Let the light in. Let it burn.’”_

Ixchel lifted the flowers carefully and found that they were woven together with stems that had blue lyrium cores. Cole set aside the box and began to help her weave the flowers into her hair. She closed her eyes as his spindly fingers worked across her scalp and behind her ears and secured the flowers. The magic felt different than Solas’s, as she knew it from the Anchor and his barriers—yet it was still familiar.

 _“‘Bring Faith. Bring Hope. Bring a dream of life,’”_ Cole said when he was done. He smiled. “You are bright. Burn.”

They made their way back up to join the celebration—for that was in fact what Dorian had begun. There wasn’t much by way of alcohol to go around, and their food was mostly just field rations, but there was music and some good-natured games.

Her soldiers cheered at her when she returned, and some of the more jubilant among them gave great howls at the sight of her walking with her wolf. She wondered what her mythos would be in the end. Perhaps, _Herald of Andraste, Wolf-Walker_ , or something even more ridiculous. But she couldn’t help but hold her chin higher, smile a little wider, at them. Her people knew who she was: an elf who spoke to Spirits like people, who carried darkness in her and chose to Hope, and who freed slaves and held oppressors accountable. She forgave, and she loved, freely.

Ixchel recognized, as she walked among them, that they loved her—strange and unexpected as she may once have seemed.

Solas was absent from it all, but Ixchel did not inquire after him; Cole and Amarok disappeared, probably to sleep and heal as they had said, so she went in search of other company. It found her first.

“Where in the world—?” Dorian dragged her onto a seat by the fire so that he could inspect the flowers in her hair. “ _What_ in the world—?”

“Cole found it,” she said. “I think it’s from before the fall of Elvhenan.”

“Do you just put on _any_ magical artifact you stumble across before your arcane advisers can look it over?” he tutted.

“You know I do,” she replied with a laugh. How many bodies had they looted without pause and immediately donned their better armor, wielded their better weapons, before realizing there was some enchantment that made them a detriment rather than a boon? She laughed a little more at Dorian’s chagrined smile. “Well, Master Arcane Adviser,” she said, “what is it?”

He began to brush his fingers through her hair, feeling out where the stems lay. He played with the blossoms. “Powerful,” he said. “Protective, mostly. I imagine a little bit of the adoration that’s come your way tonight has been due to the enchantments on it.” He rounded her and came to sit on a cold stone in front of her. “Draws the eye, brightens the smile, sharpens the eye. You are _stunning_ in victory, Ixchel. Of course, only slightly more so than usual.”

Dorian glanced around in search of someone, and her back immediately straightened. “I’d rather stay away from that topic,” she said.

He glanced at her obliquely. “Certainly, _mula_.”

Ixchel glowered.

“Have you noticed—it’s stopped snowing?” he asked suddenly. “As soon as that rift closed. And it’s getting warmer. I imagine when the morning comes, the skies will clear some, and it’ll begin to warm.”

“How long do you think it’d take to thaw the river?” she asked, looking over her shoulder into the darkness where the Elfblood lay. “That ice seemed pretty thick.”

“Indeed…” He hummed a little as he thought. “Well, I think it’d be wise to close the rifts on the river _before_ it melts. Would hate to try and fight a Pride demon over open water. Electricity and all that.”

Ixchel couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright. So we’ll spend the next few days closing the last rifts, and then I’ll take an afternoon or so to get some correspondence out to Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen, and while we wait to hear back from them we’ll maybe do some more investigating into the operation here.” Her brow suddenly creased. “Why quarry red lyrium? How? I thought it was grown from people. But are they turning the normal quartz into it?”

“Such dark questions,” Dorian tutted. “You said it yourself—celebrate, for once!”

She shrugged slowly.

“This is such a magnificent place, Ixchel. Twice the size of Din’an Hanin, I’d wager. And so very much taller—these arches, the walls. Do you think there was glass in the windows? Stained, perhaps?” He smiled as she began to smile again. “How _does_ it feel to be in such an ancient place, Champion? That is what everyone seems to be calling you these days.”

Ixchel cast her smile around at the walls, all that remained. “It feels like I’m a part of a legacy,” she admitted.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the sharp air; she could feel the press of Spirits all around her. She wondered if it had been some magical fluke that the rift here had led to Choice’s domain, or if there was truly a connection between locations in the physical world and pockets of the Fade. _Was_ the Nightmare’s domain centered around Adamant? Or had it merely been brought closer there? Or had it merely had some openings to it there, formed intentionally by Venatori? Regardless, she felt the Spirits here, where the Veil was thin. It was a keep. It was a fortress. Likely, it had seen wars. But it had also belonged to an Evanuris, a god—and what choices had been made there? What other powers had been brought there and then bound or broken?

“I’m starting to think I understand what Cole has been saying.”

Ixchel opened her eyes to look at Dorian with shining curiosity. His expression as he watched her was soft, adoring but also almost sad. He reached out and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, then dawdled there, stroking a lyrium flower. “Think about what you’ve heard. The world tells you, over and over: you chose; you named yourself; you promised. You are the Champion of _something_ or _someone_. There is one question that your entire life seems designed to test. Is choosing to hope a futile endeavor, or is it _absolutely necessary_ to do so if there is to be any hope? Or is it somehow both?” His mouth turned down at the corners. “I suppose I told you so.”

Ixchel’s stared at him. Then, she frowned. She looked down at her hands.

When had she first made such a choice? _Which_ choice? To whom had she sworn?

She closed her eyes and listened.

Ixchel had taken control of the Inquisition from its beginning and dedicated it to defending the defenseless, made it a mirrored shield between warring factions such that they saw the harm they caused to themselves as well as each other. Ixchel was motivated to stop Solas, to change his mind, to sway him from his course—because of the lives that hung in the balance.

For so long, she had been rigid in her insistence: _the People, the Poor, the Downtrodden._

Even Mythal had urged her: _Rise, Champion! You will not abandon your People yet._

And there had been a tree planted for her, in Din’an Hanin.

But had she chosen, or been chosen?

 _You named yourself. But you also decided what it_ means _. Is that a confine? Is it a guide?_ Can _you choose, Ixchel?_ Imshael had asked.

And that was a question, wasn’t it.

“It changes very little,” she told Dorian.

“Perhaps.” He sighed and gave her head one last pat. “But once again. If you are the Champion, allow us to be your vanguard and standard bearers.”

Ixchel dipped her head. “I suppose I should.”


	49. Ardent Blossom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/21/20

Ixchel could not find Solas, so she went to her own tent and began her nightly preparations. But once she had changed out of her armor, she still felt restless.

She decided to wander her new fortress.

Ixchel bundled up in her quilted gambeson and her cloaks and robes, and she went wandering. She wrinkled her nose at the remains of Red Templars and giants and at the cages that defiled the keep. She tried not to look at them much, and instead focused on other aspects of the landscape. For example: how many trees there were, growing so close together that in some places they _were_ the walls of the keep. The wide open pathways; the looming arches.

Ixchel continued on through the snow. She was aware of how her boots crunched in gravel and ice, and it saddened her that in this way she was not so elvhen. She had heard the stories from her people in the field about the preternatural way the Sentinels moved. Utter wraiths, leaving silent murder in their wake. Perhaps she never would be able to walk barefoot in the snow, silent as a Shade, as Solas did.

Around the bend from the cages where the red lyrium-tainted giant corpses had been thrown, she stopped. She tilted her head back. Andruil’s archers lined the path forward, but they framed something she had not stopped to consider before: in the moonlight, she now saw that the distant mountain had been carved into a massive wolf. It was not part of the keep, although there were plenty of guardian wolves scattered about it. Rather, the mountain itself had been fashioned into the image of Fen’Harel, in a position that was clearly of central importance.

Of course, she remembered the stories of Fen’Harel and Andruil, enemies and lovers in equal measure.

Ixchel hugged herself in the cold.

There was no doubt, given the statue of Fen’Harel in the Temple of Mythal, that these depictions were meant to be Solas. But at some point, they had simply become _guardians_ on their own, separate from his story. She wondered which this one had been—Elvhen or Dalish—but if she had to guess…

She wandered through a large hall that had become a place of storage for the Red Templars. She examined the statues here: sword-bearers in armor, women standing over armies and upholding horned skulls, all molded to the walls. Perhaps later editions—human, even.

Her path led her out again along a road lined with harts and archers. The trees grew close enough that their branches tangled together and formed a roof. At the end of the path, she pushed open a tall set of doors and entered a new part of the keep that she had not seen before. The foliage here was less snow-covered and much more verdant. She removed a glove and brushed some of the little snow that had fallen off of some leaves, and she found that they curled up at her touch. When she withdrew, they unfurled again, like flags.

She had been surprised to find so much metal here in the keep, given its ancient origins. She could not recall having ever seen something from Elvhenan with so much metal, and certainly not anything from the Empire of the Dales. Now she examined some of the metal fixtures and tried to understand their purpose. To her, some looked like dragon’s skulls, hollow and sharp and serpentine. But there were other metal spires that seemed like they were pointing to something; others seemed intended to hold or enclose something quite large. Some seemed perfect for the giant red lyrium crystals, almost like the Tevene foci that she had used to tear down the ice wall of the Hakkonites… Other metal fixtures had less obvious purposes. Cages, perhaps?

Ixchel glared at them. There were many things she had heard about Andruil that had not been particularly pleasant.

She continued her circuit and found herself in a smaller courtyard. Her boots crunched louder in the snow, and she looked down. There was glass beneath her feet, winking at her with silver and gold.

She bent and brushed away the snow and found that as she suspected, it was the remnants of an eluvian. She picked up a shard and found that it had been blunted by erosion, so likely it had been broken for quite some time. A quick glance around and she could not discern in the darkness which portal had once held the eluvian. There were stone arches on every wall, and they could have been mirrors or they could have been windows.

She sighed and fingered the glass thoughtfully.

 _Are you out looking for eluvians?_ she wondered. _Would you claim this keep for yourself, Fen’Harel, in the days to come?_

“Inspecting the spoils of your victory, _lethallan_?”

Ixchel whirled round, her boots sending glass and rock clattering in her wake. He stood in the archway from whence she’d come, his hood still pooled up and his robes pooled about him as though to obscure. But he did not hide. In fact, he stood taller than he even usually did, when he was pretending to be a withdrawing and uninteresting hedge mage.

She clutched the shard of the eluvian to her chest and looked up at him, but she could not find his eyes from beneath the murk of his hood. Nevertheless, she could sense that there was something different about him here. Maybe it was because the Veil was so thin. Maybe it was because this was a place of their people, and he felt the weight of its significance. But Ixchel had a feeling that there was something meaningful about this place to _him_ , and she wasn’t sure what it implied, and she certainly couldn’t ask.

Ixchel was deeply concerned, regardless—whatever it was, it had caused him to watch her with almost suspicion. She felt, somehow, for some reason, she was in danger under his gaze.

She took a deep breath.

She wasn’t afraid of the Dread Wolf

“I’m not giving this place to Orlais, don’t worry,” she told him.

He chuckled. “No. I didn’t think you would. Especially since you found such beautiful flowers here, somewhere.”

It hadn’t been her imagination: there was a dark undercurrent in his voice that seemed utterly out of step with his words.

“Cole found them,” she said, more defensively than was probably warranted.

He hummed. “Curious. They are a powerful artifact.” She caught the glisten of one eye, just for a moment, in the dark—and then it was gone. “Do you know what it is called?” he asked.

“No.”

“It is the Ardent Blossom. _Felgaral dir’vhen’an._ Throughout history, similar items have been given to great warriors selected to be a ruler’s Champion. It stems from tales of Andruil giving such a prize to Ghilan’nain.”

Ixchel touched the flowers in her hair warily. “I should take it off.”

That did not seem to be the right thing to say. The air between them thrummed with magical energies and tension. She realized suddenly—had _he_ been looking for the magic that now adorned her hair? Did he want the flowers for himself? Were they important? Did he want their power, or were they simply meaningful to him?  
Because they were Andruil’s?

“Why? It is truly beautiful.” Solas left the threshold, and he began to prowl about the circumference of the courtyard. His movements behind his cloak seemed to float, as though he were made of liquid or gas. “And it is powerful.”

She tracked his path around her, warily, with her eyes. When he passed beyond the line of her vision, her shoulders tensed, and she looked down at the shard in her hands. It was completely white with moonlight, and blinding. A slight tilt, and the light flashed in her eyes, but then she could see her reflection: the flowers, the scars, the vallaslin and all.

“Do you know the prayers to Andruil?” she asked him sourly. _“’Andruil, blood and force, your people pray to you. Grant that your eye may not fall upon us. Spare us the moment we become your prey. Andruil, blood and force, save us from the time this weapon is thrown. Your people pray to you. Spare us the moment we become your sacrifice.’_ I don’t want anything of hers, Solas. She sounds horrific.”

There was a flicker of movement, and she angled the eluvian shard again over her shoulder to find Solas standing there, so close, yet she had not felt his approach. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she shone moonlight into his face and saw the wicked smile upon it—deliciously dark, devilish.

Solas reached up and unhooked one blossom from her hair. Then, he took a step back; she turned to follow him and watched warily as he turned the blossom over in his hands.

“What if _I_ name you Champion?” he asked the blossom.

Ixchel stared at him. “What?”

Without lifting his face, he raised his eyes to hers to assess her reaction. His sharp humor only seemed to grow. “Then it will not be Andruil’s, _nor_ Ghilan’nain’s,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. It had been quite some time since she had seen the _trickster_ of the Dalish legends come out to dance. And now she knew this was a dance, a game—she just couldn’t tell what tune it played. Did he want her to be comfortable wearing the Ardent Blossom, or did he want her to be rid of it? Did he want it for himself, for its power, or to destroy it out of some retribution to Andruil and Ghilan’nain? As always, with Solas, there was a large piece of the picture that she was missing, or a fog on the lens, and she hesitated to settle on an explanation lest she choose incorrectly and be judged for it, even without knowing the rules.

There was one thing left she was certain of: she _liked_ the Ardent Blossom.

“Fine,” she said. She raised her chin defiantly, with a smirk on her lips that was just as mischievous and knowing as his own. “On the condition that I named myself first.”

His smile grew softer around the edges. “As I have learned,” he agreed. “You chose yourself. You gave yourself a name, decided its meaning. You hold your own promise.” He closed the distance between them and lifted the blossom above her head, cupped in two hands. “And thus I would name you _Panelan’vierlan,”_ he said, “and _Rogasha’ghi’lan,_ and Champion of the People. As you have named yourself: for all you shall serve, and for all shall you lead.”

She stared up at him as he slipped the blossom back into place, and all at once, whatever charge there had been in the air—whatever had preoccupied him, cast her in darkness in his eyes—snapped clear. He did not caress her, did not kiss her, but there was a sudden gentleness now in the way he touched her hair and settled the blossom more securely. The fondness with which he looked at her, the love, hurt so deeply and so sweetly…she could not get enough of it.

Her earlier conversation with Dorian echoed in her mind.

_He’ll remake the world to suit his desires. His chosen to reign._

Ixchel swallowed thickly and hoped she had not just made a serious misstep in the game of the apocalypse.

Solas stepped back again, his smile now once again friendly and relaxed. “Forgive me for slipping away during your celebration,” he said.

“Don’t apologize,” she replied. “I assumed you went to dream somewhere. I could not begrudge you for taking some time to yourself.”

“Thank you, _lethallan_. Some things come more easily to me in the Fade, and I had much to reflect upon after the events of the last several days.” He relaxed even further. “Now, I believe I have some ideas for how to hide you tonight. If you are ready.”

She glanced back at the shard of the eluvian in her hand. It seemed unkind to toss such a precious and powerful thing into the snow, so she made her way over to an empty window and placed it on the sill. She found him watching her with a strange look on his face as she returned.

He began leading her back in the direction of camp, though it would be a long walk through the winding and ruined paths of Suledin. For a while, the only sounds she heard was the crunch of their steps in the snow, and the cries of birds in the far flung corners of the night. Then:

“I hope you know…I do not think any less of you, Ixchel. I am not afraid to see the cracks that you believe make you broken. I too have found myself lost down long, dark roads, alone.”

Her breath hitched. “Cole told me that we sound the same,” she said softly, so that her words were carried more in the mist than they were in the sound of her voice. “But he said that even in the moments that hurt, I can make you hope.”

Solas exhaled slowly. “You are more capable than you realize. Today was yet more proof. Few would be able to survive a battle of _rhetoric_ with a Spirit of Choice—let alone one so old and powerful as Imshael. But not only did you survive, not only did you subdue him, you _changed his essence._ I have learned by now that you have this affect on the world at large as well.”

“You’re not alone, Solas,” she said in a catching whisper.

“And neither,” he replied firmly, “are you.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felgaral dir’vhen’an. - Blooming/Growing Oath/Promise (Ardent Blossom)  
> Panelan’vierlan - master warrior  
> Rogasha’ghi’lan - brave guide/leader/teacher


	50. Teldirthalelan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/22/20

Amarok vanished in the night to tend to Skyhold once more, according to Cole, though Ixchel did not quite understand how Amarok could seemingly walk physically through the Fade at will. From then on, Cole and Solas took turns helping her hide from the Nightmare. Ixchel woke each morning refreshed and invigorated, regardless of who had hosted her the night before. Dorian complained loudly about her renewed stamina, as she kept strictly to the relentless schedule she had outlined previously. She worked tirelessly to close the last rifts and sent a nearly endless stream of correspondence to her advisers in Skyhold.

She sent Leliana her notes about the Sulevin Blade, to be passed along to Neria, First Ralaferin, who had joined the Inquisition as a scribe and researcher. It wasn’t long before she heard back that the blade was a legendary sword lost during the Second Age, and if found, would be a meaningful gift to Dalish allies. To see the sword recovered by one of their own would no doubt inspire as well.

Leliana had also worked hard to find the reason why the Venatori were so interested in Elvhen ruins, and she had traced the orders to the very same Magister whose name had appeared at Caer Oswin among the Promisers and Red Templars: Calpernia. The name had been lifted from an ancient Tevinter legend of a priestess of Dumat, who happened to be the foster-mother to the founder of the Imperium itself.

“A name like that is meant to assure the Venatori they follow in the footsteps of legends,” Dorian had commented, reading over her shoulder.

“Does every Tevinter suffer from such delusions?” Cassandra had asked wryly.

While Leliana had yet to discover the reason for their interest in the ruins, she had discovered that Calpernia had also ordered Venatori agents to shadow a merchant in Val Royeaux. Leliana recommended that when Ixchel reached Val Royeaux, she pay a visit to the merchant.

For Josephine and Vivienne had urged Ixchel to bring her party to the capitol soon to meet with ambassadors, agents, and merchants on behalf of the Inquisition. Vivienne had asked Dorian to make haste to the city and meet her to help organize the last preparations for whatever might occur at Halamshiral. Thus, it was not long before Dorian bid them a fond farewell and obeyed the Iron Lady’s commands.

She and Cole hid by racing harts across rolling hills of golden grass, or wandered among stars. Solas walked the maze with her, but sometimes they lost themselves in ballrooms populated by more people than she could have ever imagined.

Solas first brought her there after Josephine and Vivienne wrote her, under the pretense that they should practice dancing. She lay her head down, and opened her eyes to the Fade, and found swirling spirits all around her. Solas had dreamed her in a dress unlike any she had ever seen or worn: it fluttered loosely at the top of her thighs, and it clasped at a gold loop around her neck, and everything in-between she couldn’t quite understand. It was white and flowy, and it was backless, and yet somehow it did not slip off her every curve and leave her exposed. Even so—she was left feeling very much as though Solas had dressed her in his desires.

She hadn’t seen him immediately, so she shaped the Fade enough around her to wear a more stately dress that was far less scandalous before going to seek Solas out in the crowd. She finally found him and swept him into a dance; if he was surprised by her change of clothes, he made no indication. They spun and twirled and dipped and flew with the bodies around them, tireless and free-spirited as one can only be in the Fade.

“You are an experienced dancer, Inquisitor,” he noted jubilantly.

“It’s like any footwork I’ve ever learned,” she replied, chin raised to deflect the question.

But more and more she began to feel a weight on her chest that felt like the cousin of guilt. The dress was but another stone added to that burden.

For it was difficult not to pretend that whatever lay between her and Solas was unspoken, taut, unresolved. He loved her, but he was holding back, yet even so he was indulging in other ways. She loved him, but the more she held back—out of respect for his boundaries, out of fear of reopening the wound of her heartbreak—the harder it was for her to imagine that she might ever accept his affections, in the best-case scenario. The more she pretended that she didn’t notice his affection, the more she pretended like sleeping in his arms didn’t mean anything and exploring the Fade together so intimately didn’t mean anything…she began to fear that her heart would cramp in the position of not allowed to love. And wouldn’t that be a tragedy?

Yet she could not bring herself to imagine that best-case scenario. She did not allow herself spend precious emotional fortitude on choosing to hope for that.

Each morning she hoped to help as many people as possible on the way to stopping Corypheus. She hoped to shield as many of her dear friends from hurt as she could. She hoped to see Solas in possession of a self-renewing hope, a hope that could lead him forward even without her or her love. She hoped for a better future for the Dalish, and the city elves, and slaves everywhere, and the poor…

She did not let herself hope for such a small thing as love.

Finally, the call came: Josephine and Cullen had been analyzing the movement of troops on the Exalted Plains and identified that the emerging Venatori threat had begun to disrupt efforts on both sides of the Orlesian civil war. They urged decisive action, soon, in order to secure the goodwill of Celene and Gaspard. As the days passed, news arrived that a new threat had entered the equation: hordes of undead.

Thus it was that Ixchel led her small party out to the Exalted Plains.

-:-:-:-:-

“Welcome to the Exalted Plains,” Blackwall grumbled. “What a long, bloody history.”

They had just crested the rise above the forward camp and looked out at the smoke rising up from the plains. Ixchel drew up her horse and gazed out upon the Dirthavaren. “Lindiranae fell here. The last to hold the blade Evanura, the blade of honor, forged in Halamshiral.”

“And with her, fell the Dales,” Cassandra said softly. “I have heard the tale.”

Ixchel nodded. “But have you heard the song?”

She glanced back at her companions and found them shaking their heads. She looked back at the plains, the promise, and slowly made her way forward, letting the song rise softly from her as she progressed. She had heard the tune reconstructed only once, but it had stuck with her long after:

_“Bright silver were his helm and chain,_  
_bright silver on his horse's rein;_  
_he rode upon the golden plain,_  
_the brave and comely knight._

_The elves stood fast, their banners high._  
_they would not flee, they would not fly,_  
_though knowing they would surely die,_  
_the last of Dalish might._

_He met them on the golden field,_  
_the fate of elvenkind now sealed,_  
_in mercy, urged them all to yield,_  
_he sorrowed for their plight._

_But prideful were the Dalish kin,_  
_their vengeful hearts could not give in:_  
_with raging cry and dreadful grin,_  
_they struck against the Light._

_Beneath the red and fading sun,_  
_the elven stand was swift undone,_  
_'til they were vanquished, all but one:_  
_defiant in her fight._

_Her brothers on the field lay slain,_  
_he would not see her die in vain._  
_In grief, cried "Yield!" to her again,_  
_that good and gentle knight._

_He could not strike; his shield dropped low,_  
_she lifted sword against her foe._  
_They did not see the far-off bow,_  
_its arrow loosed in flight._

_A sharpened thorn, a searing brand,_  
_a shot the elf could not withstand;_  
_the sword fell lifeless from her hand,_  
_with drops of crimson bright._

_He said no word, he made no sound,_  
_but caught her, falling to the ground._  
_her dark hair flowing, all unbound:_  
_a veil as black as night._

_And up around him came the call,_  
_that celebrated Dalish fall,_  
_the cry of vic'try came from all,_  
_except the silver knight._

_The glimmer of his helm and chain,_  
_now dull with dark and bloody stain._  
_He looked and saw upon the plain,_  
_the dying elven light._

_Elf sword in hand, heart filled with woe,_  
_no one would ever see him go,_  
_but with a solemn prayer, spoke low,_  
_he vanished into night._

_They say he rode on easterly,_  
_the sword he placed beneath a tree._  
_and there remained, on bended knee,_  
_that grave and mournful knight.”_

Cole, who had taken to riding behind her, squeezed her tight around her midsection.

“Who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?” she asked the air around her.

He pressed his cheek against her shoulder. “He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same,” he murmured, so softly that she felt his words more than she heard them. “You’re real, and it means everything could be real. Bright and sad, observes and accepts. Spirit self, seeing the soul, _s_ olas, but somehow sorrows.”

Ixchel tightened her grip on the reigns and widened her lead down the hill toward the camp.

“Inquisitor,” Harding greeted. “The Freemen of the Dales still have a presence here. Between the Freemen, the rifts, ad the undead, the Orlesians have lost ground. Most have been driven back to their forts—Celene’s to the far northeast, Gaspard’s due east. Lady Montilyet and Commander Rutherford believe you can stabilize the region with your presence.”

“I certainly hope so,” Ixchel replied. “We’ll set out on foot shortly. I have a few things I want to go over with you. Let’s go to the map.”

Ixchel handed off her horse and joined Harding to point out several locations of interest: the blocked entrance to Ghilan’nain’s Grove, and the general areas where she knew some ruins lay—possible ambush sites for Venatori. In return, Harding outlined the various fronts of the war and where the ramparts of each faction lay, as well as their fortresses.

Then, Ixchel led the way down the Path of Flame to the ramparts. Her eyes were drawn not to the battlefield but to craggy road west, guarded by a reclining statue of a familiar wolf and leading to the last remaining trees of the Dirthavaren. She tried to throw her gaze beyond them, see through stone and earth and sky and reach the Feratherien Clan, warn them of the danger.

Cassandra put her hand on her shoulder and guided her back to focus on the task at hand.

Ixchel let loose a long, slow exhale and pressed on.

The battlefield was aflame: Rage and Terror stalked the wooden structure, looking for victims. It seemed that most had already retreated. Ixchel unhooked Glittering Darmallon and swung it in a wide loop off to one side as she assessed which route to take from here. As she looked about, she spotted one Orlesian soldier sneaking around a bend, trying to avoid notice of the demons.

His gaze slid in her direction only briefly, but she nodded at him and beckoned him closer.

“Who are you, Ser?” she asked as he approached.

“I fight on the side of Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, rightful Emperor of Orlais,” he said testily. “Who do you serve?”

She thumped her chest meaningfully. His eyes locked on to the red insignia Vivienne had fashioned her, and his weariness suddenly became apparent. He fell to one knee. “Ah, Inquisitor. You have come to our aid!”

“I have come to save the Dirthavaren more bloodshed,” she said dourly, “and in answer to calls from the refugees caught up in your war. Gaspard left Sahrnia in ruins and allowed my enemy, the Elder One, to take over the Emprise du Lion. Celene has burned alienages and turned a deaf ear to her people’s needs.”

The soldier looked up at her warily. “Then…you are with the Freemen?”

Ixchel shook her head. “No. I am with the People,” she replied. “Tell me, when did the dead begin to rise?”

“When the Freemen began to amass in greater force,” the soldier reported. “Strange lights in the night—it must be magic, but the Freemen are just deserters from the armies. How could they have managed this? And why?”

“They too have allied with the Elder One and his powerful Tevinter mages.” She turned to the ramparts and frowned. “How long have these fortifications been abandoned?”

“A few days.”

Ixchel sighed. “Then the Arcane Horrors will have taken root,” she said grimly. With a roll of her shoulders and a crack of her neck, she set off. Cassandra and Blackwall’s swords rasped as they unsheathed them and hurried to follow, while a preemptive barrier settled upon all their shoulders. “If I were a ruthless and amoral rebel group with diminished numbers, how would I muster a force to rival an army?” she called over her shoulder.

“Demons?” Cassandra asked.

“Their dead,” Solas corrected. “But Theodosian customs are strict about burning remains.”

Ixchel gave him a wry look over her shoulder. “Let’s find the body pits and see about that, shall we?” she asked. “Don’t stop for anything less than a Revenant or a Horror. Everything else will just keep coming.”

It proved to be a more difficult order to follow than she had hoped. Hands grasped at their ankles as they ran across trenches lined with the fallen. Arrows clattered clumsily down on their heads from above as the archers’ water-logged joints sent them off course. Ixchel charged, shoulder-first, through more heavily-armored foes and headed in the direction she knew the first body pit lay. But even so, the dead pushed crates into her path and bundles of swords to trip her.

She was forced to proceed more slowly, and when at last her party found the pit of corpses, it was as she had feared: they were fatigued by their long slog through the ramparts, and now they faced both a new wave of undead—and the Arcane Horror who presided over it all.

Ixchel bared her teeth in a snarl, every inch the feral elf of the stories; her vision shook in time with her thundering pulse as it cried: vengeance!

She launched herself forward into a charge.

A glistening barrier of fire rose up around the pit. The Horror began to cackle, seemingly unconcerned about the axe that swung its way toward it.

At the last moment, it vanished.

Ixchel used the momentum of her swing to arc around and search for the Arcane Horror, never once allowing her full weight to come to rest on her feet. Forward-moving, she couldn’t afford to remain a solid target for the thing. She caught the shimmer in the air as it rematerialized across the rampart and she charged again. Just before she reached it, an ephemeral fist exploded from the ground and grabbed a hold of the Arcane Horror’s rags and dragged it lower to the ground—right into the range of her axe.

Blackwall minded Solas while Cassandra, Ixchel, and Cole tracked the Arcane Horror across the enclosed staging area. Ixchel went shoulder-to-shoulder with the Seeker to draw the Horror’s attention while Cole found an opening to lodge his daggers in the thing’s neck. She could hear Cassandra praying under her breath—”Blessed are the blades of the—” and Ixchel didn’t hear the prayer finish but felt the Veil warm around her to imbue their weapons with the strength to sunder Demon from Fade.

It was Cassandra’s blade that finally shattered the monster’s skull, and Ixchel immediately took advantage of the respite to fall to her knees and catch her breath. She watched detachedly as Solas hurried to take down the Horror’s barrier around the body pit and light them aflame.

Cassadra leaned on her tower shield and looked down at Ixchel, gasping for breath herself. “Is this what we will find at _every_ fortification?!” she demanded.

Ixchel nodded clumsily. “It’ll be a siege,” she said heavily. “I’ll have Bull and the Chargers called in. We’ll need them.” She cursed to herself and pushed herself to her feet again, using the handle of her axe as support. “Do you think we should call Gaspard’s people and have them retake it?” she asked.

Blackwall looked at her with concern. “Won’t we be clearing out Celene’s too? Do you think they’ll stop us?”

“No telling.” Ixchel sighed. “Well. I don’t know how we’ll be able to keep the Venatori and Freemen out if we move on and don’t have anyone come in after us. We don’t have the soldiers here, and I don’t want to look like we’re becoming a party in this war.”

“They’ll find a way to keep fighting with one another no matter what you do,” Solas said. “It will be better for everyone, including your own people, if the Freemen and Venatori do not retake the area.”

Ixchel clapped Blackwall on the shoulder with a heavy gauntlet. “Can you blow the horn then, my friend? Let’s call the damn Usurper home.”

They only managed to clear one more rampart on Victory Rise before nightfall—but Celene’s forces did not answer the signal horn. Ixchel and her party waited for a few more hours, but as darkness crept across the plain and the wolves came out in greater numbers, she was forced to retreat to the Path of Flame camp. “If I come back in the morning and find another Horror has taken up shop there,” she muttered angrily to herself.

Cole took her hand and began to pull her off the path, into a field of burning buildings. “Someone—someone—he _needs_ you,” he said urgently. She reached for her axe, but he yanked her harder. “No, he needs a _friend_!”

Ixchel put her head down and ran with him.

Cole released her hand when they seemingly reached their destination, as though to fling her forward ahead of him into the building.

She did so—and found herself face-to-face with a startled young elf.

He was sitting cross-legged, a journal in his lap and a nub of charcoal in his fingers. A knife was laid in front of him, in the center of a summoning circle he’d scratched into the ground. He shrieked at the sudden intrusion, and a clumsy barrier rose up over him, but Ixchel took a step back and held her hands up.

 _Savh_ ,” she said quickly. “ _En’an’sal’en_! I apologize, I thought—”

His barrier flickered and shattered. “An— _an’eth’ara_ ,” he replied. “What are you doing here? It’s not safe!”

Ixchel stared at him. “It’s…?” She looked around and found him armed only with a roughly hewn staff and his book. She looked down at herself, then back up at him and gestured wryly at her own heavy armor. “You and I are long ways from our clans, _arani_. The Dirthavaren is not safe for any lone elf.” She glanced behind her and gestured for Cole to keep their companions at a distance. “Have you lost your way?” she asked the elf.

“No! I was… I was looking for something. You know, a relic.”

Ixchel wracked her brain for such an artifact. “Evanura? Dirthamen’s Wisdom?” She frowned. “No. It was Lindiranae’s amulet.” Her brow cleared immediately, and she took another step back. “Wait, _you’re_ Valorin!”

Valorin scowled at her. “Did Hawen send you? My sister?!”

Ixchel held up her hands. “I have a friend, a spirit,” she said. “I walk with Compassion—he said that your sister is worried about you, Valorin.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “You are not a mage,” he spat. “ _Harellan_!’

Ixchel shook her head. “I am the Inquisitor. I keep friends of all kinds.”

Valorin glanced back at the insignia on her chest. “So it’s true. They really did dress up a flat-ear with vallaslin to pretend—”

Time seemed to stop. For one terrible moment, Ixchel felt paralyzed as Valorin’s words hit her like a blow to the gut. Then, her rage and shame shot hot through her blood, and she drew herself up to her full height.

“ _Nuva Ghi’lan’na’in then asa shud ove arsyl o’tarasyl, i dirash na in masa dur su an’banal!”_ she snapped in her most biting and lilting accent as she could, one that Mythal and Morrigan might both be proud of. “ _Nuva mar’edhis banafelas i miol’en av ra!_ I was never so foolish when I was your age, shithead.” She kicked his dagger out of the pentacle on the floor and sent it spinning away into the dark. “Blood magic? After what happened to Clan Virnehn?”

Valorin had gone very, very pale under his stark violet vallaslin. She narrowed her eyes at him, and then she dropped heavily to the ground to sit across from him, her own legs crossed. She unhooked her axe and lay it across her lap.

“You know what might convince a Keeper to make you his First? Besides, you know, not resorting to blood magic to open a seven-hundred-year-old ward on a ruin. Initiative of a different kind, da’len. Having the humility and the honor to forge an alliance to accomplish a common goal. Even better, knowing how to navigate such a negotiation to come out in favor of your Clan. That is how Clan Lavellan has survived so long. That is what _Sael_ Taven and I did at Elgar’nan’s Bastion underneath the Vallasdahlen of the Emerald Knights. And now, valuable artifacts and knowledge lie in the hands of your clan. Even now, Keepers and Firsts from across Thedas are seeking alliances with my forces to protect and explore and study the artifacts of our People in safety.”

She gripped the axe tightly. “Why are you so eager to be First? Just because you are not ready now does not mean that you will never be! Just because there is another in your place, doesn’t mean there isn’t a place for you eventually! Has Pride caught your ear, _da’len_? Must you have the title to be satisfied? And what then?” Her hands shook on the staff. “What _then_ , Valorin?”

Valorin didn’t answer, because he fell back and slumped across the floor of the ruined house—unconscious.

“He hasn’t eaten in three days,” Cole whispered loudly behind her.

Ixchel buried her face in her hands. “ _Teldirthalelan_!”

"He shouldn't have called you that," Cole said sadly. "He needed a friend, but he's scared of needing anyone."

She dug her fingers into her hair, then sat up straight, wary of crushing the Ardent Blossom. "Fuck." She stood and looked at Valorin's prone form, then leaned out of the ruined walls of the house and looked around at her friends. They were staring at her with wide eyes—none more than Solas, 

"You know what," she said. "Fuck it. Solas, you deal with him."

_"Me?"_

"You were young once, I'm sure," she spat. "I have never been young in my _life._ And I have precious little patience for it!"

Cole led Solas inside, and Ixchel sat on what remained of the stoop and glowered at Cassandra and Blackwall. "I hope you appreciate that you didn't get saddled with _this_ as your Inquisitor," she said tersely and gestured at the goings-on behind her. 

Cassandra laughed nervously. "What, a teenager? You are hardly older than that, my lady."

Ixchel stared at her with as blank an expression as she could muster. Cassandra's laugh faded into a hesitant chuckle, then a cough. "Yes, well. I understand. You are not frivolous. Or... _very_ brash."

Blackwall raised his eyebrows. "Great Bear, Cassandra."

"I said 'very,' Warden Blackwall," Cassandra responded. "She could have gone in by herself. Or blindfolded. I have had cousins who thought it would be brave to fight dragons in such a way."

Ixchel shook her head again and sighed. "How'd that latest issue of _Swords & Shields_ end, huh, Cassandra?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawen really knows how to raise them!!!
> 
> Savh - hi  
> En’an’sal’en - blessings  
> An’eth’ara - greetings  
> Harellan - liar  
> “Nuva Ghi’lan’na’in then asa shud ove arsyl o’tarasyl, i dirash na in masa dur su an’banal!” - May Ghi’lan’na’in stir her hoof through the roof of heaven and kick you in the ass down to the void.  
> “Nuva mar’edhis banafelas i miol’en av ra! I was never so foolish when I was your age, shithead.” - May your dick rot and the insects eat it.  
> Teldirthalelan - one who will not learn (stupid)


	51. Era'harel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song at the end is "The Houses of Healing" from the LOTR soundtrack.
> 
> 11/22/20

Solas cleared his throat behind Ixchel, and she sighed into her hands.

_“Ahn tarsyldear?”_

“Valorin has agreed to return to his sister. He understands that we will know if he tries to go through with his plan.” Solas’s tone was light, but Ixchel knew him well enough to feel the dark implications of how he may have impressed the consequences into Valorin’s mind. She imagined, then, that she would be sleeping with Cole tonight, while Solas monitored the Fade across the Plains for Valorin’s dreaming mind. “And he has something to say to you, _lethallan_.”

Ixchel hauled herself to her feet and turned. She raised her chin and squared her shoulders as Valorin slunk out from Solas’s shadow. He looked sufficiently contrite, with his long ears and narrow shoulders slumped downward. His eyes were rimmed with red, she noticed, and maybe there was a sheen to his face. She pursed her lips; he looked much better than he had as a charred corpse, but that didn’t mean it was alright for him to go after her blood as he had.

 _“Ar ame ir abelas,”_ he said in a hoarse voice. _“Ma melava halani._ I was wrong to listen to such rumors, and to let my own bigotry give them weight. I will do better to recognize the signs of the People, even in faces I do not recognize.” He bowed his head. “My focus should be on protecting my clan—not furthering my own name. I do not want to lose my family like Clan Virnehn. _Ir abelas, asa’ma’lin.”_

“Make sure my time—and Solas’s—is well spent, Valorin,” she replied. _“Dar’atisha, da’len. Sule tael tasalal.”_

He bowed his head lower and walked down the steps past her, avoiding Cassandra and Blackwall’s gazes as he left in the direction of his clan to the west.

Solas stood with his arms behind his back and his head tilted as he watched Valorin go. “What a fool boy,” he said wearily. “I see now why you unleashed such a colorful flood of Elvhen upon him.”

She snorted. “Thank you for setting him straight.”

“So many mages in one clan,” Cassandra remarked. “It is no wonder they might stray to blood magic for attention.”

Ixchel raised a cold eyebrow at that. “And so many Templars in a tower, threatening to rape you if you draw _any_ attention—no wonder some might resort to blood magic.”

Cassandra’s jaw tightened, and her eyes dropped.

“Whatever happens in the future, there will be changes to how Templars and Mages govern themselves. The Inquisition may have a say in such changes. I…will remember any insight, such as this. And yours, Cole.”

Cole stepped out behind Solas, into the moonlight. “You’d take advice from a demon?”

“I’d take it. I do not know if I will follow it,” Cassandra said. “But I would say that about anyone, I suppose.”

As they continued their walk back to camp, with Cole’s hand held in hers, Ixchel found herself glancing at Solas frequently with concern. She remembered how he had appeared to the Mortalitasi spy Charter had met: a six-eyed wolf the size of a high dragon, carried by a horde of flaming spirits. _Prideful, hot-headed and foolish,_ he had described himself in that moment, to Charter. She hoped he might not stalk Valorin with such terrifying fervor.

“He’s not that kind of wolf,” Cole insisted to her.

She looked away before Solas could turn to her, and she squeezed Cole’s hand. “Yes, I can tell Amarok is no normal wolf,” she said loudly.

“Huh?” Cole said.

She squeezed his hand tighter. “Let’s just go to bed, hmm?”

-:-:-:-:-

As they passed Victory Rise the next day, headed to another rampart, Ixchel noticed a few shadows moving across Celene’s empty fortifications: Venatori, by the pointed shape of their silhouettes.

She led her companions back inside to route them before they could perform the blood ritual to summon another Horror—although with all the bodies burned, it would likely be less of a siege and more of a single showdown, if they had succeeded. Still, the encounter cost her valuable daylight. Instead of keeping to the roads and dealing with Freemen and demons and Venatori wandering about, she forged a path through the plains and skirted toward the river in search of a good place for Harding’s next forward camp.

Ixchel came across what, to her, seemed like the perfect place: somewhat sheltered by a rocky outcropping, with access to the water but on a high enough bank that they could see wolves coming. Unfortunately, the spot was already occupied by a group of Chevaliers.

“There it is!” one cried, voice echoing from beneath their helm. “Look at it. Filthy knife-ear, thinking to dress like a Chevalier?!”

Cassandra was the first to respond to the insult by leaping into battle. She cut down a page with remorseless and uncompromising strikes with her embossed shield, and then she lunged to engage with the Chevalier. Ixchel and Blackwall followed immediately. Ixchel was not particularly wound up by the slurs—they came from a shem and a Chevalier, after all—but nevertheless, she couldn’t help but feel a bit like she had something to prove.

She used her hips and shoulders to push Cassandra and nudge Blackwall into engaging with other members of the Chevalier’s party, while she engaged the knight on her own in a duel. The knight of course fought with an ornate tower shield and a short sword, and the knight was twice her size, conservatively. No matter. Ixchel had faced Pride demons single-handedly, and too many Templars to count. She led with a series of heavy, spinning blows to knock the shield arm aside, then swung her sword in a skyward arc that then crashed down on top of the Chevalier’s helm, pommel-first. In the opening she left, the Chevalier lunged, but she shifted her grip to leave one hand free, and she tilted her body so that the knight’s sword _shhshed_ by her, inches between her chest and its blade.

With her free hand, she swung down and gripped the Chevalier’s sword by the blade and wrenched it free.

Armed with only a shield, the Chevalier switched tactics to a more bear-like style. She recognized it from Bull, though Bull fought with two-handed weapons as she did. Bull’s _body_ was the shield, in most instances, however, and the principles were the same:

_Smash. Stun. Stomp._

She sank back willingly with the smash, let the momentum pass through her without knocking her off her feet. When the Chevalier tried to throw her back with one final, short push, she shoved back. The knight had put all of its weight forward into its shove, and thwarted, lost balance. Ixchel drew her knee nearly up to her chest and kicked out to send the Chevalier spinning.

The knight flailed as it fell, shield crashing down on them in a twisted heap of broken arm and locked armor.

She stomped on the Chevalier’s wandering hand as it scrabbled for her ankle, and the man inside the helm cried out in agony as, no doubt, fine bones gave way beneath her heel.

“I yield!” the knight screeched. “Mercy! I yield!”

“How many ears have you _knived_ , I wonder?” she asked him, breathless from battle; blood rushed in her ears, but she forced herself to turn her axe downward as a sign that she would relent. “How many helpless servants or peasants have you raped, because your armor shone so gloriously you thought you deserved it?” She spat on the shining armor. “Yet you are _owned_. You are as leashed an animal as any. Well, I beat you. Give me your leash, you pathetic _mabari_ , and I will let you live.”

She bent and snatched the coat of arms from the front of the knight’s cuirass. “Take his standard,” she called over her shoulder. “I shall collect your colors like you collect our ears,” she hissed to the knight.

Cassandra’s glare never once left the man as they sent him stumbling off into the fields; his arm hung limp at his side, and his weapons and people lay abandoned all around them in their newfound camp.

“Well,” Ixchel said cheerfully, and left it at that.

Among the Chevalier’s belongings were some fine bottles of brandy, and a crumpled missive:

_Did you hear? One of the recruits from Val Royeaux said he saw the "famous" Thom Rainier drinking at the Halberd, east of Val Royeaux. I thought you'd be interested, given your history. Although the lad's probably only seen him in sketches. Somehow I doubt the old captain's foolish enough to come within a hundred miles of the capital. I'll let you decide whether you believe it._

_Anyway, I heard you might be relieved in a week or two. You could talk to Proulx, see if he'll let you take leave to follow the lead. He'll understand. He did allow you to enlist for our side even after what happened with Callier._

_Rosselin_

Ixchel crumpled the missive further and walked past Blackwall. As she did, she pressed it into his chest. She did not look at him, did not comment on it.

Instead, she raised her fingers to her lips and whistled shrilly.

A response, distantly, signaled that Harding’s scouts in the area had made note of the location and would mark it for camp.

“Let’s press on, shall we?” she suggested.

And so they did. They focused on rooting out the Venatori who wandered the area. It was a calculated move to ensure that when they did eventually free the Lions’ fortifications of undead, no more Horrors would spring up behind them. After a few days, Bull and the Chargers joined them from Skyhold, and they tackled all the fortifications on the southern bank of the river.

Still, Celene’s forces did not return to occupy her territory.

-:-:-:-:-

“ _Lethallan_ ,” Solas said gravely. “If we are in need of a quick escape, we will be trapped. Should you not wait for reinforcements, perhaps to build a walkway?”

Ixchel eyed the broken bridge. “But my other option is to save Gaspard’s people and allow them to reclaim the whole of the battlefield,” she said. “How will that look to Celene?”

“You know,” said Blackwall. “I hate the aristocracy as much as you do. I hate that they sit in palaces, sipping wine while people starve outside their gates. I hate that good soldiers die in senseless wars over who gets the fancy chair. Still, it's better to have the nobility on your side than not. They're dogs, all of them, and even the primped and powered ones have teeth.”

“Are you suggesting I let _both sides_ suffer while I wait for this bridge, so that I can maintain appearances?” Ixchel asked. “I did not expect that of you. Bull, give me a toss.”

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra shrieked. “Absolutely not—”

But Bull picked her up in the crook of his arm and began to rock her—one—two—three—!

She landed with a clatter and screech as her armor scratched across the stone on the other side of the gap. But she had rolled with the impact expertly, and she hopped up to her feet. “C’mon, then!” she called. “I don’t know how I’d get back over by myself now, anyway!”

“What was that about saying you were not rash?” Cassandra demanded.

“C’mon, Seeker! Seek some fun, maybe!”

And that was how Ixchel goaded everyone into witnessing her death.

Because, as they discovered, the reason Celene’s forces had not been responding to their signals was because they were completely besieged by an almost endless army of undead. The Arcane Horrors who had taken charge had clearly been there for weeks, cultivating larger and more powerful undead warriors, reinforcing barriers, and dragging more bodies out of the keep and into their pits to rise again and besiege them all over again.

Ixchel was at least glad to have not only Bull but the entire force of the Chargers behind her. But it was still a formidable slog they faced as they made their way up the tiered fortifications. The Chargers turned the ballistae on the Horrors from afar, then harried the undead hordes while Ixchel and the forward squad engaged the nearest Arcane Horror directly.

The afternoon slogged on—and finally, finally the trenches were clear.

Ixchel had barely turned to smile at Krem and Bull when there was an earth-shattering _BOOM_ behind her. She whirled around and found the door to the keep thrown off its hinges, and a Revenant prowling toward her. Behind the Revenant poured another ceaseless stream of undead.

“There is no chance that anyone has survived such a siege!” Cassandra shouted. “We must fall back, Ixchel!”

Ixchel could not process what she had heard from the Seeker, though she had come to the same conclusion. There were _so many_ _dead_. She had not seen a trace of Celene’s people, not even once, except on the armor of the risen corpses. Could it truly be that she as too late, that they were all dead?

She opened her mouth to call a retreat, but before she could even draw breath, the Revenant had reached for her across the battlefield and drew her inexorably toward its blade.

Bull leaped in the way and blocked the upward stab of the demon-knight, and Ixchel swiftly ducked around to flank the thing.

“Bull!” she shouted. “We gotta run!” He simply roared in response, which she did not think she could take as an agreement. “Bull!” she cried again, but by the swing of his war hammer, she could tell the bloodlust had taken him by the balls. She had no choice, then, but to battle this Revenant to the death—for she wasn't about to leave Bull to fight it alone.

With a battle scream rattling in her throat, she engaged the Revenant head-on.

The battle left her weak-kneed and with a head spinning with the grating sound of metal-on-metal. She raised her arm and slashed it through the air to signal the fall-back, and she hustled along with Bull and the Chargers back toward the river—

And right through another Arcane Horror’s territory.

How? How had they missed this? _Where did it come from?_

She frantically ran from the monster’s attentions, but it seemed to have locked on to her—easy prey, perhaps. Solas’s barriers were hardly enough to cover her for more than a second under the barrage of necrotic energies the Horror directed at her. She bolted for cover and dove behind a body pit’s barrier, but she knew that it would only be a second before it rematerialized.

Her limbs had been weakened under the relentless drain of their energies, and she was too weak to even detonate the Anchor. She bared her teeth up at the monstrosity; her breaths sobbed, snarled, but she could not even raise her axe.

The disgusting mass of rotted flesh and bared bone towered over her in once-ornate robes now turned into a mockery of grandeur. Its death’s head peered out at her from beneath the battlemage’s hood, and its jaw-dropped into a shriek as it unleashed a powerful blast that threatened to rip her soul from her body—

The last thing Ixchel could grasp as her mind slipped into darkness was that she was flying. Whatever her body’s destination, she was not conscious when she reached it.

-:-:-:-:-

_Tears slipped down the sides of her face and into her hair. But she was made of tears, and surrounded by tears. They were warm, soft as silk, sad, all around her. She floated in a sea of tears._

_Something beyond her own sorrows stirred in that sea. How small her pain seemed, in that endless depth of memory, of feeling, of existence: the ocean that carried everyone. And yet even so, each of her tears left ripples upon ripples, touched so many other sorrows. Few others had such reach, here._

_But the Proud Wolf roamed the Beyond, and it was the wolf who found her: fur against her skin. Nose under her hand._

_She reached for him with her arm that was not an arm, and he slipped through her fingers. He remained just out of reach as he drew her upward, to semi-consciousness, but she wanted to drown here. It was an irony, that she felt so much lighter at the bottom of that well._

_But even as she sank, the wolf bore her upward._

You did this, _she told him._ Betrayer. Varu u’em.

_The wolf understood, but in naming him such, she enabled him to defy her._

Vyn alas’niremah i’em?

_She reached again, consenting, and he allowed her to grasp his fur. He lifted her, spun her, swirled through the Strange Place. Other voices called to her: screams from a dying world. Then, Reality broke through like a focused beam of light into the darkest of old chateaus. She screamed at the light, at its searing edges, at its sharpness._

_Dorian called to her through the gap:_ “My dear friend! We have no time!”

_She clung to the wolf, but it danced away from her again._

Nuva tarasyldhe re uth’su mar’veth.

_The ocean began to empty, all at once, like a cracked basin. Its gravity, the downward suction, was too much to resist. But still she reached for him._

_Blood and fire spilled in to take the place of the memories that poured out with her. Material mixed with Fade in an endless loop—one she was about to escape. The Proud Wolf stood against that backdrop, and he watched not the destruction of all that he had loved. Rather, he watched the one who he had destroyed with his love._

I have destroyed many things in my pride, _he told her._ I have not spared you. Even now.

_He remembered her amid his failure at the end of the world. He remembered her: able-bodied, brave, unyielding, kind, and full of love he did not deserve. That was how he returned her to the world. It was his last gift, and his last curse, to saddle her with his belief, his faith. In her, he imbued his last hope._

_Spirits shrouded him, clung to him, attracted by his might and sorrow—seeking protection. And they sang to him. They sang to him as the song of the world faltered, as the pillars that sang the world into continuity cracked and succumbed, as the well of all things poured dry and refilled itself in discordant waves:_

_And the trees are now turning_  
_from green to gold._  
_And the sun is now fading._  
_I wish I could hold you closer._

Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel.

_With a sigh, you turn away._  
_With a deepening heart…_  
_no more words to say._  
_You will find that the world_  
_has changed forever._

Dareth shiral, vhenan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 51  
> Era’harel - Arcane Horror  
> “Ahn tarsyldear?” - how’s the weather? (euphemism)  
> “Ar ame ir abelas,” - I am so very sorry  
> Ma melava halani. - you have spent your time to help me.  
> asa’ma’lin.” - sister  
> “Dar’atisha, da’len. Sule tael tasalal.” - Go in peace, little one. Until we meet again.  
> -  
> Vara u’em - leave me alone.  
> Vyn alas’niremah i’em? - would you dance with me?  
> Nuva tarasyldhe re uth’su mar’veth. - may the wind be ever at your back.  
> Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel. - May the dread wolf never hear your footsteps  
> Dareth shiral, vhenan. - go safely on your journey, my heart


	52. All New, Faded For Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic rec today is "the forest is dark and deep and i've seen you here before" by @victoriousscarf, for all your time travel/the world ended and lavellan died/but now has to go back and do everything over again and somehow it hurts more??? needs.
> 
> 11/22/20

Ixchel opened her eyes, and her mouth opened to scream as all newly-living things did, and as all living things did in the face of the end of the world.

But she did not find an apocalypse at her fingertips when she woke.

Instead, she was in Bull’s arms, cradled like a child. Around her was a constant roar of flame, but not the seemingly-unending shriek of reality being torn asunder, of Spirits pouring into the material world and mages going mad as their minds were merged to the Fade permanently. She blinked up at Bull, who seemingly had not noticed that she was now conscious.

“We have no time!” he shouted again.

She raised her hand weakly and patted his bare chest. “I’m up, Bull,” she rasped. Her lungs felt thin, felt as though they stuck to her ribs. But they did not feel punctured, at least.

He looked down at her in alarm and she felt his hold on her slip for a moment, as though he might drop her. “Ah!” he yelped. “Sunshine?!”

Ixchel gave him a thumb-up.

There was an explosion behind them.

“That was the last of them!” Blackwall roared.

“Fall back! _Fall back!”_

Another explosion.

“Where is she?! Bull! Why aren’t you moving—!”

Cassandra hurtled into Bull’s side as though to shove him out of his stasis, but he lifted Ixchel as a weak offering and explanation. Cassandra’s face was covered in blood from a cut above her eye, and her expression was murderous.

“Across the river! Everyone, go!”

Ixchel gritted her teeth as she was jostled roughly in Bull’s arms. She clung to him and squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the jump she knew was about to come.

He leaped across the gap in the bridge.

“Leave me here,” she ordered him breathlessly as soon as he landed. “Get the others, help them—I’ll live long enough—go!”

He obeyed without hesitation and set her down out of the way of the edge of the gap in the bridge, and he took a running start to head over to the other side. Ixchel lay back on the hot stone and tried to catch her breath. Everything about her felt brittle and dry, like the life had been sucked out of her. Of course, that was exactly what had happened. It wasn’t her first time falling prey to an Arcane Horror, after all.

Solas folded the Veil and shot across the gap, reappearing over her prone form in a wash of Fade magicks. His hands searched her frantically for wounds and likely found many. “That was a very close call, _lethallan_ ,” he said bleakly.

She reached for him with her arm that was not an arm—but it was.

He took her hand and examined the Anchor in her palm. It did not flared wildly, did not tear at her skin and her being as it usually did when she were distressed. Rather, she saw that at the moment it spiraled out of her palm and across her hand in the same curves and swirls and patterns that adorned the foci it had come from. The light that lined her palm pulsed with the beat of his heart, of course, but it did not hurt.

With a start, she realized what she had remembered. She struggled to sit up, and with his other hand Solas supported her back until she was hunched over her hand, staring at her palm.

She had been dead, and the world had been dying, and in that space where reality and dreams met, Solas had reforged her from his memories and gave her an arm just as he had taken one from her years before. And in doing so, he had given her his power, just as he had taken it from the Anchor in the first place, and just as she had been given it from touching his foci at the Conclave.

But _this_ mark was not the mark of touching the foci. The mark, the arm, and even her body that bore it, had come from his meddling in Dorian’s resurrection of her. Not only had he given her his power but also the power he had taken from Mythal, and from Titans and lyrium and the Veil itself.

She curled her fist around the patterns and held them tight. She was not sure what that meant, but it had meaning. She saw it now, though she did not understand.

Ixchel wished she could just ask him.

She reclaimed her hands from him. “They are lost to us, then,” she sighed. “Celene’s army.”

“I sensed great magic at work behind the walls,” Solas replied. “Not in the state you are in now—but later—it may be worth investigating what occurred there.”

“I should send word to the Empress. It’s likely she has no clue what’s been going on here.”

Her people joined them, one-by-one, with Bull at the tail end.

“I am so sorry,” Ixchel said to them all. “Have we lost anyone?”

“No one except _nearly the only hope we have for closing rifts!"_ Cassandra spat venomously.

Ixchel took a deep breath and steeled herself for the well-deserved tongue lashing to follow. The Seeker let loose on her, and in the tirade, Ixchel recognized that Cassandra was letting out the accumulated stress and fear that their ill-planned siege had induced. There would never be enough undead to put that anxiety to use, so Ixchel winced and nodded and accepted the storm of words until it ran itself out.

To her surprise, Blackwall leaped in once Cassandra’s rage began to flag. “What would you have had her do?” he demanded of the Seeker. “She was right—if there were people behind those walls, we would have been giving them over to death by ignoring them! Now, at least we know. We won’t suffer the moral question of whether or not we are handing over the war to the Usurper and letting the Empress’s people die!”

“Because we have _already_ let them die,” Cassandra said bitterly.

“Who knows?” Ixchel asked. “If the Horrors are all the Venatori’s doing, then it is the Elder One who has the blood on his hands. We came when we could, and like Blackwall said, we pushed when we could. My only regret is that I didn’t call the retreat sooner. I should have realized that the situation was hopeless. It was obvious that Citadelle du Corbeau was lost. I should have seen the signs.”

“What now then, Chief?”

Ixchel nodded at Krem. “We still have the last of Gaspard’s battlements to defend. Then there’s this fort here, on the river. Once those are clear, we can meet the generals holed up in Revasan. In the meantime, I’m sure Ambassador Montilyet can spin both sides into seeing our efforts favorably, even if Celene’s forces here are lost to us.” She sighed. “In the immediate sense, we should return to the main camp to the south. I will insist that each of you see the healers before I do. It’s not my first tangle with a Horror. I’ll be fine, I assure you.”

She extended a hand for Krem, who helped her to her feet. “You sure you don’t want a lift?” he asked.

Ixchel tried not to blush too much at the suggestion, but her effort was thwarted when Bull scooped her up and set her on his shoulders. “Hold on to the horns, Sunshine,” he said good-naturedly. “Just don’t try and steer.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel slept for nearly the whole following day, with Cole at her side. When she awoke, it was at last light, and she found Solas, Cassandra, Bull, Blackwall, and the Chargers had just returned from clearing out the last fortification. “Should be an easy walk to meet that general,” Bull said lightly. “He’s expecting you.”

She nodded wearily and staggered further from her tent in the direction of the fire. Healers had tended to her in the night, it seemed, for most of her wounds had been tended to. Her skin where the Arcane Horror had blasted her, however, felt delicate and paper-thin. She knew that if she stripped and looked at herself, she would find necrotic veins spiraling out in a web across her skin.

But she also knew that with some good food and a few days of rest, she would be good as new.

Not her first Horror, after all.

“Any word from the Advisers?”

“Here. This just got in.” The Requisition Officer handed her a scroll and left her to it.

There were several missives scrawled across the page.

_Inquisitor —_

_Glad you are alive. Take the lesson for what it was, and do not repeat it. Call for soldiers, if you must. Skyhold can spare them._

_Cullen_

_Your Worship:_

_I have sent word to the Empress of your findings at the Citadelle and upon Victory Rise. Leliana and I have heard word that there had been orders from the Empress that peace was coming, and that the army should pull back to the Citadelle and ignore Gaspard’s harrying. It is likely that these orders were either intercepted—or were originally forged—by the Elder One’s agents to concentrate the Empress’s army for easy slaughter. The orders were sent weeks ago. Judging from the timing, then, reported by Gaspard’s soldiers, it is likely that the Venatori’s efforts began across the river and only spread to the battlefields on the Plains after they had subdued Celene’s forces._

_It is highly suspicious that they targeted Celene’s forces with such focus, while they seem content to simply harass Gaspard’s. Perhaps an alliance has been struck with the Elder One that we are not aware of._

_Either way, we expect news from both leaders soon. We urge you to finish the efforts upon the Exalted Plains and make haste to Val Royeaux to pursue leads on Calpernia—she is the connecting thread between the Venatori and the Elder One, and thus any knowledge gained from pursuing her will no doubt illuminate the strategy upon the Plains and, hopefully, their plans for assassination._

_We wish you speedy recovery. Perhaps avoid Cassandra for the moment. It seems she is quite upset._

_Ambassador Montilyet_

Ixchel rolled up the scroll again and tapped it against her forehead. “We will meet with Gaspard’s Marshall tomorrow, then then it seems we must swiftly head to Val Royeaux.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate to leave rifts open across the Plains… The Veil is just so thin I’m afraid they’ll just reopen, and I don’t know if I have it in me to fight what they might throw at us.”

“Can’t blame you,” Bull said amicably. “I won’t complain if we’ve had our fill of demons for a while. Sounds like there’ll be more ‘Vints in Val Royeaux anyway.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ixchel saw Blackwall standing at the correspondence desk. His shoulders were hunched as though under a great weight. The image tugged at her.

She stared pensively at his back as she tried to decide whether she should confront him or not.

At last, she stood and slowly made her way to his side. He was staring down at a pile of letters from Leliana to the scouts and vice versa—reports and rumors, all—and, from the way he shuffled them quickly at her approach, she guessed that therein lay the report of one of his men’s pending executions.

“Hey,” she murmured.

He barely raised his head.

“Walk with me. And if you’re going to be stubborn, I can order you.”

She crossed her arms and waited for him to rise. It took a moment, but at last he did. He held his shoulders square and his chin up, ready to hear his fate.

Ixchel just turned and led him to the edge of camp. She stood in silence and looked up at the moon hanging overhead, again trying to decide what to say to him in this moment. Doubtlessly, he was in turmoil. How long had he taken to decide his course of action, last time? Upon reflection, it had seemed that he were in a stormy and unsettled mood for several days before his disappearance. Here, he had just heard the news—and there was no telling how he felt, or what he thought.

“How are you feeling?” she decided to ask.

“Uncertain,” he replied. “Deeply unsettled. Ashamed. But you’ve known, somehow.”

Ixchel nodded.

“Warden Blackwall is dead. Has been for years.” Blackwall’s voice shook with self-hatred and anger, which surprised her just a little. “I assumed his name to hide from _who_ and _what_ I really am. Do you know _that_ , Inquisitor?”

Ixchel nodded again. “What happened to Blackwall, really?”

“He wanted me for the Wardens, but there was an ambush. Darkspawn… I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. But a good man—the man he was, wouldn’t let another man die in his place.” He clenched his fists at his sides. “There is a man who is set to die for what I had him do. It should be my head that rolls.”

“I can’t allow that,” Ixchel said firmly.

“Don’t you understand? I gave the order to kill a man, his entourage—his wife, his children—and I lied to my men about what they were doing! Now those men, _my_ men, pay for my treason while I pretend to be a better man!” He took an almost-threatening step toward Ixchel, and she winced. “ _This_ is what I am! A murderer, a traitor…a monster.”

“Our lowest depths cannot define us,” she insisted. “Rather, our heights—and all that lies between. Somewhere along the line, you have stopped pretending to be a good man. You are a good man. I would not allow you by my side if you weren’t.”

Blackwall changed tactics suddenly. His voice became needling and gentle. “You’ve been a friend and an inspiration, Inquisitor. You’ve given me the wisdom to know right from wrong and, more importantly, the courage to uphold the former. Please. Let me do this.”

Ixchel shook her head. “Turning yourself in is brave, but it does not make up for the pain you caused. If you go, I will follow. I will use the full weight of my power to avert the executioner’s axe.”

“I will accept my punishment. I am ready for this farce to end!”

“Then let it end, Thom!” she snapped. “You have been Thom to me all along. There is no farce. You are the kind of man who atones, the kind of man who protects, the kind of man who _regrets_. Surely you realize by now that not all men are capable of such remorse?”

“I cannot let that man die in my place!”

“I never said we would!” She raised her hands in frustration. “You think _I_ would allow that?”

“You would allow a murderer, a child-killer in your ranks!”

“And I would have a force entirely composed of murderers, if they sought to atone and prove themselves as you had!” Ixchel laughed, disbelieving. “Is that not what the Wardens are, Thom? Haven’t you always said that? They an an Order with a promise to protect others—no matter their background? It’s never too late to do better, to become more than what you are? Men and women atoning for what they’ve done by giving of themselves, isn’t that what you told Dorian?”

Blackwall narrowed his eyes at her, then looked away. “I’m sorry. I must ensure this man’s safety personally.”

Ixchel stared at him. “You don’t trust me to do so?”

“I don’t know if I can survive the guilt if I don’t… If I am not… _He_ needs to know. My men need to know. To see what I am willing to do, in repentance.” He held out his hands beseechingly, though he still did not look at her. “If he is spared, but I am allowed such an easy path to forgiveness… What will they think of me?”

“You were one to talk about guilt!” She ran a hand across her face, and then she reached for his extended hands. “I cannot stop you then, Thom?”

Blackwall exhaled slowly, and then he found the strength within him to meet her eyes at last. “No. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter that you tried, my lady.”

“The axe will not find you,” she swore to him. “Maybe it’s cruel of me. But death is too easy a reprieve for a guilty mind. I’d rather you put in the hard work to serve, and atone—and find a future where guilt does not weigh on you. That’s my hope, Thom. Wouldn’t that be better than death?”

He gave her hands a squeeze. “In the moment, I am not certain which would be easier,” he admitted. “Goodbye, my lady.”

Ixchel allowed him to pull away from her, and she gave him a head start back to camp.

He ignored her as she wrote several urgent letters and sent them off with their swiftest ravens. She ignored him as he packed up his belongings and set out, on foot, along the road to Val Royeaux.

She stayed up long into the night, staring into the darkness where he had left. She had no idea if she had made the right choice.

“Inquisitor!”

Ixchel jumped when Harding addressed her. “Lace?”

“My people have spotted a group of Circle mages fleeing down the road to the southwest,” Harding said under her breath. “Just as you told me to look for. There were Venatori on their tails.”

Ixchel rose to her feet. “Thank you, Harding. Ready two horses immediately.”

Lace nodded and scampered off, leaving Ixchel to go rouse Solas. She picked up Bull’s war-hammer on the way, leaving her axe in its place.

She found Solas already awake and leaving his tent. He had a gentle, excited smile on his face. “One of my oldest friends is in the area, _lethallan_ ,” he said.

“A spirit?” she guessed.

He beamed at her for her canny guess, but she reached for him urgently. “There is a group of desperate mages being chased by Venatori. They’re heading in the direction of ancient summoning stones. I do not know what they will attempt in their fear, and if your friend is near, then it is all the more urgent that we intercept them.”

Solas nearly forgot his staff in his hurry to don his armor and meet her. Cole appeared with the horses, armed and eager, eyes wide. “This is what you showed Envy,” the Spirit said reverently. “You know Demons are Spirits who were warped. You don’t want to see Wisdom turned to Pride!”

“Sure, exactly, yeah.” Ixchel brushed him off and dragged herself into the saddle, though the motion pulled at muscles that still ached, skin that was still taught and burned by the Arcane Horror.

“Shatter the stones, and no Spirit can be bound,” Cole continued. “Curiosity, Passion, Valor—you freed them to show Envy you were not afraid of Fear or Rage or—”

“Cole!” she urged. “Stealth! Shh.”

Solas mounted his horse, and they set off at a gallop down the road that led west.

Soon enough, they were passing burning corpses in the pre-dawn murk. Ixchel leaned closer over her horse’s neck and urged it fly faster. As they drew closer, they could hear the raised voices of mages echoing through the Fade.

“If we disrupt the binding quick enough, we may be able to stop the Spirit’s corruption,” Solas called desperately.

Ixchel’s horse leaped over a crumbled stone wall and landed in a thunder of hooves and earth beside a cowering mage. She drew her horse up short before she trampled him, and as her stallion reared and shrieked, other shrieks shattered the air.

“The Inquisitor!” a distinctly Tevinter voice jeered. “Stop her!”

“The Inquisitor?!” the mage nearest her gasped. “We are saved!”

Ixchel climbed up onto her horse’s saddle and balanced there precariously as she squinted into the night to assess the battle. There were only two Venatori that she could see, and seven Circle mages. Likely, the Circle mages would turn on her the moment she started interrupting their summoning, and then she’d have nine opponents to deal with. Optimistically, the mages would run and leave her with the Venatori Spellbinders to deal with.

“Cole, take the Venatori. Solas, watch my back! I’ll crack the stones!” She vaulted off of her horse’s back and somersaulted into the grass to avoid a barrage of ice that was sent her way. Then, she ran in the direction of the summoning circle and placed her trust fully in the strength of Solas’s barriers.

“What are you doing?!”

“Stop her! She will free the demon!”

“Lyrium potions—lyrium potions—!”

“Inquisitor, you must help us, _please stop_ —no!”

Ixchel shattered the top of the first summoning stone with the full force of her momentum behind her hammer. A crack spread through it, nearly reaching its base, and she kicked out at it. The magic in the area hummed and vibrated in response to her attacks, and the Anchor flared as a tear formed in the Veil.

She picked up the pace of her barrage and succeeded in knocking down the first stone pillar. The tear sealed again on its own, but the mages still persisted in their summoning. She felt a searing heat on her back as she launched herself at the next pillar, and then the cool, rippling satin of Solas’s barrier reformed against her skin.

“Listen to me!” a mage shouted at her. “I was one of the foremost experts in demonology at the Kirkwall Circle—”

She rounded on the mage. “You will cease this binding ritual before the Spirit can be corrupted!” she retorted. “If you do so, I can protect you!”

The man made no indication that he would heed her, so she continued her assault. She heard Cole cry out in rage and pain behind her, but she did not pause. She could not afford to have a Pride demon—or anything else—slip through behind her back while she dealt with the Venatori.

“Stop her!” a mage cried again.

Solas’s barrier around her shattered in a concussive blast that finished the next pillar for her. As it fell, she allowed herself to turn and assess the battle, for the remaining two stones formed merely a conductive line of magical energies, and not an enclosure. She did not know much of binding rituals, but she guessed that such a geometric conduit would not be enough for the mages to continue their summoning.

Cole had caught _fire_ , targeted by a mine spell, but it seemed that only one Venatori mage remained. She shouldered Cole out of the way. “Get to the water!” she shouted to him, and then she engaged the last Spellbinder with her hammer.

Solas was suddenly at her side; he stepped out of the Fade to flank the Spellbinder, and as she distracted it with a blow to the knees, Solas twirled his staff so that the blade pointed forward—and he lunged.

The staff head punched through the man’s chest with a sickening, wet crunch, and the mage slumped forward toward Ixchel. She stepped back, and Solas staggered forward at the sudden dead weight on the end of his staff.

He did not even bother to remove it from the body. He left it there, and he rounded on the Circle mages congregating fearfully in preparation for a new assault from the Inquisitor and her mage.

“All that remains now is them!” he snarled.

“Ah—ah—thank you! We thank you, Inquisitor!” The ‘foremost expert of the Kirkwall Circle’ approached with clasped hands. “We would not have risked a summoning, but the roads were too dangerous—”

“You would have tortured and killed whatever spirit was caught in that web!” Solas spat. “You would have turned even the most precious of ancient Wisdoms into a slave to kill in your names!”

“The book said it could help us!” the mage pleaded, nearly tripping over himself to withdraw from the obvious danger.

The mages cowered, and Ixchel forced herself to stare at them, to watch their fates play out in front of her. Her breath burned in her chest; she had not realized it, but she held it, afraid and waiting. She knew Solas could kill these people, these fools. She knew that he was powerful enough that she could not stop him if that was what he had decided. She knew that all she believed in, everything she stood for, would damn her for not even trying. The _world_ would be damned, if—after everything she had done thus far, after everything she had tried to teach him, willed him to understand, begged him to see—he still chose to kill them.

She _should_ stop him.

But she held her breath anyway.

And she hoped.

“Damn you all!”

Ixchel felt the Veil warp around her, felt the Anchor bleed out from her toward its true master with the force of his anger. His shoulders shook with his rage, and it seemed that the whole world shook with it. She did not see his face as he took another step toward the mages—

He froze, and he quivered like a bowstring plucked tight and ready to release.

“Ixchel,” he said under his breath. “Look away.”

“No.”

“Do not stop me!” He spoke almost over his shoulder, but not quite, as though afraid to look at her.

Ixchel let her hammer fall to the ground, and she tucked her arms behind her back to hide how her hands shook.

“I will not even try.”

Solas shuddered as though she had slipped a knife between his ribs from behind.

A long silence followed.

“You are fools, all of you,” he said.

“I understand that one who was not trained in the Circle might—”

“Word of advice,” Ixchel called icily, “I’d hold off on explaining how spirits work to my friend here.”

“You are fools,” Solas said again. “The Inquisition’s protection was within your reach, but your pride and your fear prevented you from seeking it. Instead, you would have summoned a spirit—no matter its nature—and bend it to your will, enslave it for your protection as the Qunari do their _saarebas!_ For mages trained in a Circle, you have learned nothing of cruelty and power!” He spat on the ground in front of them, and they shrieked and cowered pathetically. “You will turn yourself in to the Inquisition camp. They will protect you. They will grant you freedom that you do not deserve, but perhaps it will teach you its value. But you must swear to never— _never_ —again attempt to bind another into such service! Spirit or flesh, no one should be a slave to another’s will!”

“Do you swear it?” Ixchel demanded.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Come. I will lead you,” Ixchel said. “Any of you injured? You can have my horse. I will walk. Gather yourselves. _Now!”_

As the mages scattered, Ixchel glanced between Solas’s rigid back and Cole’s bedraggled form; it seemed that the Spirit had gone and rolled along the banks of the river to douse the fire. He did not seemed burned, but she could tell that his energy had fallen too low. Cole brushed by her and went to fetch Solas’s staff.

“I need some time alone,” Solas said. “I will meet you in Val Royeaux.”

Ixchel swallowed what felt like a bundle of nails in her throat. But it began to melt into something warmer, softer. She nodded, and she nodded at Cole.

“Take the time you need,” she said. "The both of you."


	53. Invitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/23/20

Ixchel cried when she got back to camp.

Cassandra and Bull were up waiting for her, having woken to the thundering hooves of her departure. One look at her face, and Cassandra barked at the mages to go report to the nearest officer, and then she dragged Ixchel off to a quiet corner of camp, with Bull following.

“What has happened this night?” Cassandra asked, more gently than Ixchel had expected.

That was what triggered the floodgates.

Ixchel crumpled to the ground, on her knees, and bent over with her face in her hands. For a while, she could not explain even to herself what she felt that overwhelmed her so. Part of it was Blackwall’s departure. She had not recalled it being quite so hard to save him from his own guilt, last time, and now she had the added burden of seeing her own immutable suicidal shadows reflected back at her. Not all of it was so bad: she was exceedingly relieved that she had been able to spare Solas’s friend, Wisdom, from the torture and corruption and death she had been subjected to previously. Perhaps even more good had come of it: the former-Circle Mages were chastised, and now they would be in a position to learn and grow in a new tradition. Yet even this, which was not so dark, still sat heavy on her shoulders and in her chest.

Solas had spared them. Solas had thought of her, in the midst of his rage and his grief, and he had spared them. More than that, he had shown them a kind of mercy she would never have expected of him. For as much as he loved to teach the willing, he had told her himself that he was tired of teaching those who did not want to be taught, fighting for those who did not want to be fought for. Yet that was exactly what he had offered these foolish mages, who would have certainly called him fool and madman for his beliefs about Spirits.

He had given them this mercy, given them this chance, to repent. To prove themselves.

He was listening to her.

He had _changed_.

Ixchel wept for a long time, eventually migrating into Cassandra’s arms. Bull lay a large hand on her back, and they sat in silence while she cried.

“We must hurry to Val Royeaux,” she croaked at last. “We will speak to Gaspard’s people at first light, and then we must depart. Blackwall… His real name is Thom. He was a captain in Gaspard’s army, and he was ordered to attack one of Celene’s financial supporters. He found out that the man’s wife and children would be present at the assassination, but he didn’t tell his men—he told them to kill everyone on sight. And they did. Gaspard left them out in the cold, and Thom ran—but one by one, his men have been hunted down for treason and murder…and now another one has been found. And Thom…” She sobbed. “He’s gone to take the man’s place, to try and spare him.”

Cassandra pulled away from Ixchel and held her at arm’s length. “Is…is the man even a Warden?!”

Ixchel sighed. “He was meant to be. But the Warden who was supposed to support his joining died.”

“You let him go, Sunshine?” Bull asked.

“I told Josie and Leliana… I think he’ll interrupt the execution. We’ll have him taken into custody, and then buy him out. I don’t care.” Ixchel sniffed and hiccupped pathetically. “I couldn’t convince him of his own words! That the Wardens are honorable, despite whatever sordid things are in their past… No matter the background, it’s not too late to do better…” She sniffled again. “You all were so willing to support me, but he refused to let me support him!”

A new wave of tears burst out of her, and she fell into her own hands again.

“A man who truly aspired to be righteous would not lie,” Cassandra muttered. “He would earn respect, not steal the respect due another.”

“Isn’t that what he did?!” Ixchel demanded. She pushed at Cassandra vehemently. “Has he not saved our lives? Has he not worked tirelessly? Has he not defended the innocent? Who cares what armor he wears? Are you so easily swayed by titles—”

Bull grabbed her as she continued to beat at Cassandra with limp fists. “Sunshine,” he said in a low rumble. “Where’s Chuckles?”

“He…” She waved her hands. “Everything he’s seen lately, it’s been hard. After Valorin, after these mages—he needed some time to dream, to reflect on…better times… I guess…”

“Seems like they chose a bad time to go run from their personal demons, Sunshine.” Bull pulled her closer and rubbed soothing circles up her back.

Cassandra, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes. “These mages you brought back were also turning to blood magic? For what reason! Inquisitor, if you have recruited—”

“They were being chased by Venatori… They were going ot summon a powerful spirit and enslave it to defend them. There are powerful ones here—rare ones—Faith, Glory, Wisdom…it would have killed it.” She held her hands out for Cassandra and clutched at the Seeker’s arm. “I know _that’s_ nothing you disapprove of on principle.”

The Seeker stiffened. “You are correct,” she said, “though perhaps I regret the way in which you say it…”

“Spirit or flesh, no one should be a slave to another’s will,” Ixchel said. “I don’t blame you. But this was not blood magic, is what I mean to impress… It was just something that broke Solas’s heart.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t kill them, honestly,” Bull said.

She glanced up at him. “I thought he was going to,” she admitted.

“Did you stop him?” Cassandra asked. “If these mages were about to do something so unforgivable in your eyes… Why would you?”

Ixchel groaned. “I would take Blackwall back into our ranks freely! I honor the Wardens! If we killed everyone who trespassed against us, we would never have tales of redemption, Cassandra!”

“Do you think that Chevalier you wiped the floor with will redeem himself?” Bull asked. “Just curious.”

“No.”

“But there’s a chance, huh?” He snorted. “That why you spared him? What if he goes and cuts the ears off the elves of a whole other alienage, out of misplaced revenge?”

Ixchel pushed herself to her feet and shoved Bull away from her. “If I were to live my life like that, I should kill each and every mortal being I meet!” she snapped. “You! You, Hissrad? Isn’t there a chance one of your orders will be to kill me? If I operated that way, I should kill you, no matter your use—no matter how good I believe you are—no matter how much—” Tears filled her eyes again and she swayed on her feet.

Bull put out a hand to steady her.

“Easy there, _sataareth_ ,” he said gently. “I’m not doubting your judgment. Just making sure you question your choices.”

“I never _stop_ , Bull,” she retorted. “That’s why I’m called _Inquisitor_.”

Cassandra burst out laughing despite herself. “Sorry,” she said, covering her mouth with both hands. But Ixchel snorted and sat back heavily on the ground, and a few wet chuckles escaped her, too.

“It was a good one, wasn’t it?”

She put her head back in her hands. “But like I said,” she whispered, “everyone leaves, and I can’t stop them.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel spent very little time at Fort Revasan. If she had been in a better moood or did not have a friend’s life on the line, she would have paid more attention to the provenance of the stonework, the statues. She would have contemplated the meaning of “The Place Where Freedom Dwells.” She would have tried to piece together more of Solas’s past, and the history of her people.

Instead, she kept an eye on the sun and when at last her anxiety got the better of her, ordered Bull, Cassandra, and their retinue to leave for Val Royeaux. It took four days of nonstop travel to reach the city. They sought Dorian out at the luxurious hotel and found Vivienne with him.

“ _Pretiousa_!” Dorian cried and threw himself at Ixchel. After a swinging embrace, he set her down and pressed a goblet of wine into her hands. “Leliana sent word ahead of you. The execution is set for three day’s from now, but we’ve had no sign of our errant Warden.”

“And I do hope you shan’t go looking for him,” Vivienne added. “There is ever so much to _do_.”

“Like killing some ‘Vints?” Bull asked in a voice so silken, it could have been sexual.

Dorian made a face. “Yes, well, get a _room_ , I’d say. But yes. We have identified the merchant who is working with Calpernia, and we are ready to make a move when you are. To be fair, we haven’t seen him in _several_ days, but it may simply be that he’s out on holiday. We don’t suspect he’s _made_ us, or anything.”

“Even so, that might be an opportunity,” Ixchel said. “And you, Madame? How fares your hunting?”

“Lord Chancer de Lion and those he had gathered have _certainly_ learned a valuable lesson on how utterly _passé_ it is to use such childish language in reference to living beings,” Vivienne drawled through a sharp smile. Ixchel grinned at her in response. “However…I may have unintentionally created a new fad, one that our Qunari friend might appreciate, with his…ropes.” She inspected her claw-like nails. “Men of the upper echelons have adopted a language much more reverent. Well, in some cases. What was it we heard, my dear?”

“ _‘Step on me, my Queen! Sit on my face, oh conquering angel—’”_ Dorian adopted the most salacious and groaning of tones in his performance, which sent Ixchel and Bull’s ears a-burning. Cassandra buried her face in her hands and ran away.

“Ah, thank you,” Ixchel said, and she cleared her throat. “I’m not sure if that’s better, but at least it’s different. And the preparations for a ball?”

“Here you are, my dear.”

Vivienne gestured elegantly, and a heavy envelope tilted out of her fingers and into Ixchel’s hand. The paper smelled of vandal aria and felandaris. “An invitation from Lady Morrigan—” her lip curled “—as a neutral arbitrator of peace talks between the warring lions. It is co-signed by all parties, including the Empress’s former spymaster, Lady Briala.”

Ixchel tore open the envelope and indeed saw it was just as Vivienne had described: the date had been set, her invitation secured, and now she simply needed to dress her entourage and save the world. She looked up at the Iron Lady with wide, sparkling eyes. “Oh, Vivienne! This is _perfect_!” She clutched the paper to her chest. “I don’t have to kiss Gaspard the elf killer’s bloody hands!”

Vivienne’s smile faded. She pursed her lips, cut her eyes at Ixchel and said, “Do not celebrate, Inquisitor. This means that you must kiss _all_ of their bloody hands.”

“No,” Ixchel corrected good-naturedly, “they must all kiss _mine_.” She turned to her party. “Now, let’s go get some more blood on them, shall we?”

“Sounds like a party!” Varric exclaimed as he waltzed in to the room.

Ixchel threw herself at the dwarf, who was dressed in even greater finery than she had ever seen. “Varric! Or shall I say, Master Tethras?” She dipped into a curtsy, then burst out laughing and hugged Varric again.

“You missed _so much,”_ Bull said emphatically. “You want to look over my Ben-Hassrath reports, Varric. There’s some juicy shit in there.”

“Oh boy.” Varric patted Ixchel on the shoulder. “Can’t leave you alone for more than a minute? Shoulda learned my lesson with Hawke.”

-:-:-:-:-

They approached the merchant’s home under the cover of night. In addition to his new wardrobe, Varric had also picked up a much finer lock-picking set. With his new infiltrator’s tools, he had the door open in complete silence and in such a short amount of time that Ixchel didn’t even have a chance to reach for her weapon.

The door swung open silently, and they stood contemplating the open doorway for a moment before mustering the resolve to go inside. They found a fire lying low in the hearth—and a house in dissaray.

“What _happened_ here?” Cassandra gasped.

Ixchel crept inside and strained her ears in all directions. Upstairs, she heard the telltale creak of a footstep. Then another, heavier. At least two infiltrators, then.

There was a slightly heavier sound, but only barely. If she had not been so experienced with murder, she might not have realized it for what it was: an assassination.

Followed by another, and then two heavy thuds as bodies dropped.

“Who goes there?” she called harshly.

_“You first!”_

Ixchel dodged out of the way of a Venatori’s bloody body as it came hurtling over the bannister at the top of the landing, and she raised Glittering Darmallon to block the incoming strike of a greatsword. She kicked the falling body away and held up the staff of her axe again defensively. Barriers layered thick over her, but she heard a familiar song pulsing ahead of her—dizzyingly powerful, bright, blue—

“ _Inquisition_!” Ixchel cried.

The next blow fell, then retreated, and there was a pause.

She lowered her staff. In front of her was the strangest elf she had ever seen, and that was saying something. He was taller than most elves, on par with the ancient Sentinels she had met. His hair was white like an ancient one, as well, but he had _facial hair,_ trimmed neatly, and his ears were rounder, like her own.

How did _this_ half elf get lucky with the height lottery?

Also, he glowed.

He glowed with blue-white tattoos that seemed carved in his skin, like a gruesome version of vallaslin, though they were in no design she had ever see attributed to an evanuris. The Forgotten Ones, perhaps?

“Andraste’s _sacred knickers!_ Broody, is that _you_?”

Varric squeezed past Ixchel and burst into the room, arms open.

The man’s face dropped from a wary and wrathful visage into a completely blank and neutral expression. If he were happy to see Varric, he absolutely did not show it. Varric faltered only for a moment. “Let me guess, this guy was running a slave op?”

“He’s a Tevinter,” the man said.

“Hey now,” Dorian muttered behind her.

“Sorry, Varric…?”

“Inquisitor,” Varric said proudly, “Fenris. Fenris, Ixchel Lavellan, Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste.”

“Debatable, that bit,” Ixchel interjected with a nervous laugh. She could feel heat creeping up her cheeks at the underlying current of wrath she sensed in the handsome half-elf warrior; it was something familiar, something exciting, all at once. “I met Hawke,” she said quickly, watching Fenris’s face for any trace of good will. “Good bloke.” No change. “So this guy was a slaver? Fuck him." She offered him a shaky smile. "Er. What’s up?”

Fenris shook his head, sending his long mohawk falling across his brow. “This man was selling slaves to someone called the Elder One by way of a Magister, Calpernia. I’ve been tracking them for months.”

“The Elder One is my great enemy,” Ixchel said grandly.

“The Elder One is Corypheus,” Varric said. “The Darkspawn lunatic thing that Hawke fought with the Wardens?”

Fenris’s face twitched with an immense flare anger, then back into neutrality. “Well, he’s buying a lot of slaves,” he said blithely. He paused for effect. “And then _freeing them,_ apparently.”

Ixchel frowned. “That’s pretty rich, from him. Considering he takes over bodies whenever he dies and remakes them to fit his _ugly_ fucking image.” She leaned back against the corner of the door. “Fenris, how about we take advantage of this fine, slave-owning-bastard’s desk, and discuss liberation and rebellion and other such noble topics?”

The elf nodded shortly, but did not sit. Ixchel’s allies stood in the doorway while she, Varric, and Fenris stood around the slaver trader’s desk.

“Alright well, Fenris, let’s put this to rest right now: I’m pro-freeing slaves,” Ixchel began. “I value our People’s history. I have fought at every turn for the downtrodden and shackled, the oppressed. Whatever your mission, I’m not going to fight you.”

“Then we have a conundrum, because it seems that the Elder One is freeing quite an impressive number of slaves, and you say he is your enemy.” Fenris, at least, replaced his sword in its holster upon his back. He crossed his arms.

Ixchel stared at him for a moment and pondered him. He was a handsome man—she saw it, what drew Hawke to him, as well as the honor of his mission. But there was a rage in him that was not buried so deep, and was not so foreign to her. “Fenris,” she said. “In a few days, or a few weeks, there will be an imperial ball. The Elder One is attempting to assassinate the Empress, which—on the surface—I have no issue with. She burned the Halamshiral alienage to the ground. However—”

She explained the nature of Blighted lyrium, and explained the Blighted future she had seen, and explained the potentially mind-wiping slavery that Corypheus could exert over Grey Wardens of all kinds. She spread her hands wide. “Among all of this, clearly, many Tevinter slavers are positioned to supply the Elder One with bodies. For what purpose, I cannot imagine. But it is not for slaves to be _free_. It is not for slaves to have _power_. He seeks to tear down the Veil and unleash the horrors that lie behind it upon the world, to enslave _every_ nation under the Imperium’s rule. In the end, all will succumb to the Blighted future Corypheus has in store.”

Fenris’s eyes were narrow beneath his heavy brow. “So the Blight is just another charming gift from the magisters,” he said dryly. “Fine. I should have known nothing is ever as it seems… Fool I am, I had hoped that maybe a slave had infiltrated this Elder One’s ranks and was using their power for _good_.”

Ixchel held up a hand. “I wouldn’t rule that out,” she said. “There’s definitely something going on here. But if that’s the case, I would hope that they’d work for us, long-term, and not for the furtherance of Corypheus’s goals.”

“You going to come along for the ride, Broody?” Varric asked.

Fenris snorted. “I’ve found I don’t work on teams, these days.”

Varric set his jaw. “I’ll rephrase. It’s not a question. _You’re coming,_ Fenris. Being alone isn’t doing you any good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> qunlat: Sataareth - “that which upholds,” a word for foundation, defender, enforcer, all at once.


	54. Errands in Val Royeaux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for breaking 100 kudos! :O  
> 12/24/20

A thorough search of the grand apartment revealed more about the slave trading operation—Ixchel gave those documents all to Fenris—and several shards of a strange crystal that seemed exceedingly familiar to Ixchel. “These are a Shaper’s tools,” she murmured, holding them up in the firelight.

“A Dwarven relic for storing memories!” Dorian observed. “There’s one or two in Minrathous. Exceedingly rare.”

“Our friendly arcanist might know what to make of it,” Vivienne called.

Ixchel closed her fist around the crystal. “I’ll have to send them off at once. Who knows what’s contained in here?”

“Oh, Dagna is _in_ Val Royeaux,” Vivienne said. “I assumed you wanted protection in your Winter Palace attire, my dear.”

Ixchel beamed at the First Enchanter. “Oh, Vivienne, I cannot wait.”

“A few more days,” Vivienne demurred, and it seemed as though she were trying to hide a smile.

Downstairs, Varric was needling Fenris about the past several months, and what he was planning, and— “Where are you _staying_ Fenris? On a roof somewhere? Or did you kill another Magister and take his digs?”

Ixchel leaned over the bannister. “Don’t tell me you were going to take _this_ guy’s apartment. It’s covered in blood!”

“That’s how I like them, haven’t you heard, Inquisitor?” His tone was lusty and dark, and he smirked at the terrified look it induced on her face. She desperately hoped he wasn’t flirting with her. She very much felt like she were being sniffed at by a shark.

“Come and stay with us at the inn. It’ll be like old times!” Varric gestured at Ixchel. “We played Wicked Grace with Hawke and had a blast, but she needs to test her skills against a _real_ pro.”

Fenris chuckled, his eyes still glowing up at her from the first floor. “Not strip-grace, I hope.”

She _felt_ her ears flatten back with unease. And burn. There was no hiding the blush under her yellow vallaslin.

Varric laughed, not seeming to notice where Fenris’s attention lay. “I think you’ll really like her, Broody. She doesn’t take shit from anyone. Likes big weapons. Likes punching slavers and nobles. She fights for the little people!”

“Yes, that is in the ad I sent to the paper,” Fenris replied sarcastically.

His dwarven companion smacked the air beside Fenris illustratively, careful not to actually touch the man. His brow had grown uncharacteristically cloudy, and now he looked up at Fenris with a look that almost bordered on a scowl. “You two are made for each other,” he grumbled. “All _three_ of you.” He glanced up at Ixchel and shook his head. “All of you so upset about people abandoning you, when you can just ask people to stay. Look, here I am, asking: Fenris. Stay. I miss you, man.”

Fenris glowered at him and turned away, though he did not move any closer to the door. “And how has that worked for you, Varric?”

Ixchel vaulted over the bannister and tugged Varric into a hug.

“It’s alright, Sunshine,” he sighed. “Let’s get back to the inn, eh?”

-:-:-:-:-

Fenris lurked angrily in the back of their group all the way back to the inn, and then he broke off to the bar downstairs to demand drinks. Varric went with him, and Ixchel left them to have some privacy while they caught up. After all, she and Dagna had some investigating to do.

They were still cracking away at the memory crystal into the dawn, when Leliana and Josephine arrived in Val Royeaux. Ixchel had, at some point, slipped into unconsciousness with her head pressed against Dagna’s upright-magnifying glass, which was how Leliana found her when she arrived. The Nightingale tip-toed up to the Inquisitor and, with a wicked grin at Dagna, pulled the magnifying glass stand out from under Ixchel’s face.

Ixchel fell forward, then overcompensated as she woke and leaped up—knocking her chair over in the process.

“Inquisitor!” Leliana crowed.

“I’m—I’m…” Ixchel rubbed her eyes. “Creators, Leliana.”

“Ah!” Dagna shrieked, and there was a _pop!_

And then suddenly, Corypheus was walking straight toward Ixchel through the Fade.

The Inquisitor lunged for her axe, but when she turned, she realized Corypheus had continued walking as though she weren’t even there, and he approached another figure that had suddenly materialized on the opposite side of the room. They shimmered like Spirits, but Ixchel swiftly realized that that wasn’t what they were.

“Have no fear of demons,” the darkspawn Magister intoned.

“But the power will draw them! Unless you have wards against possession?” the other spirit demanded. It was a woman with hair pulled back into severe buns, and she seemed dressed in the style of the Magisters Ixchel had met later in life, on her visits to Tevinter. She stared up at Corypheus with a stormy expression.

“Once you become the Vessel, demons will be beneath your concern. Prepare as I have directed.”

The woman curtsied. “I shall, Elder One.”

The images flickered, crackled, and vanished.

Leliana rounded on Dagna. “That was magnificent!”

“Man, I’d hate to work for him. I’d get a crick in my neck from looking up all the time,” Ixchel yawned, then frowned at herself, because she knew she wanted to be serious. “He wants her to become the Vessel…”

Leliana nodded. “Yes. Whatever that may be, did you see her expression? Their alliance may be less than harmonious.” She raised a hand to her chin. “They spoke of power and demons, but Calpernia is already a Magister.”

“Is she really?” Ixchel murmured. “She’s as young as I am. We know her name is assumed…”

She shook her head and crossed over to the window to look out into the pre-dawn glow that had settled over the golden city. So Samson and Calpernia both had been primed to drink from the Well of Sorrows. Samson, she knew was a fanatic and his zeal for corrupting Templars was out of an insane misinterpretation of the idea of freedom. Perhaps Calpernia worked under similar delusions. No. She was buying and freeing slaves and punishing those who might mistreat them. But she was going to drink from the Well?

There was a reason Solas had not wanted her to do so. To be under a geas…

Did Calpernia even know? Would she make such a choice to sacrifice her own freedom, her own mind, to an ancient Elvhen god?

“Well, she had to have been a slave,” Ixchel murmured. “I’m sure of it.”

“You think…?” Leliana joined her at the window. “Even slaves with magic are treated unkindly in Tevinter. If Corypheus freed her, no wonder she follows him.”

“Last night we found she’s been purchasing and freeing slaves from that merchant,” Ixchel told her spymaster.

Leliana hummed with dark pleasure. “Then perhaps we can make her see the light about the master _she_ now serves. It cannot come from us, however, Inquisitor. We are her enemy—she would view any such arguments with suspicion.”

“I wouldn’t try to convince her that joining an organization of the Southern Chantry is the way to ensure the safety of enslaved peoples,” Ixchel said wryly. Leliana chuckled. “If there’s a rift growing between her and Corypheus, we must exploit it.”

“To do so, we must learn more about this Vessel.” Leliana rounded on Dagna. “Can you rework this device to hear things on command? Could we use it to spy on her?”

“Well…” Dagna scratched her head. “I’m no Shaper, but I might be able to get it to remember new sounds!”

If we hid it among Calpernia’s belongings…” Leliana grinned. “You are proving to be quite worth the expense after all, Arcanist.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel found Varric and Bull sitting at a table with a breakfast of Orlesian pastries and coffee. Varric seemed to be in slightly better spirits, and his brow eased further when he saw Ixchel come down the stairs. “Morning, Sunshine,” he called. “I heard you’ve been having trouble sleeping lately?”

She sighed and nodded. “Two sugars and some cream please, Bull,” she murmured as he reached for the coffee. “Solas and Cole were helping hide me from the Nightmare demon that serves Corypheus. I’ve been doing alright since they left, but it takes a lot more of my energy to keep running and shaping the Fade all night on my own.”

“Where _did_ our most unfashionable apostate go?” Dorian joined them, looking utterly well-rested and in his element here in a fancy Orlesian restaurant-inn.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Somewhere nice to dream, I imagine. He had a friend, an ancient Spirit of Wisdom, who he had wanted me to meet… Perhaps he sought its council after everything that happened…”

Varric put his hand on her arm. “Did he say he’d be back?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t help the smile that played upon her lips as she said it. She had replayed that moment a hundred times, to convince herself that yes he had said he would find her in Val Royeaux. He _had_ said he would find her. He would.

Varric chuckled, and Dorian raised his eyebrows at her pointedly. Bull handed her the teacup full of coffee, but he did not smile. In fact, his gaze seemed tinged with sadness. “I can’t decide if you handle your fears well, or self-destructively,” he said. “On one hand: it’s honorable and brave to let go of the fear, and do the thing you’re afraid of. On the other hand, it’s pretty damn trusting of you. Maybe you’re leaving yourself open to a blow that’ll make the bruise underneath worse.”

Ixchel tapped her spoon along with her words for emphasis: “Why. Can’t. It. Be. Both?”

Bull snorted.

“You really do espouse some interesting philosophical views,” Dorian mused. “The simultaneity of disparate truths being the foundation of them all, I think.”

She took a sip of her coffee and smiled. “Well, I can’t explain every damn thing in the world with, ‘ _The Maker Wills It To Be.’_ Sometimes, things just gotta all be true. It’s a lot to wrap your head around if you’re used to being led along by a Chantry sister’s leash, I’m sure.”

“Oh, they have leashes here _too_?” Dorian cooed.

Ixchel nearly spilled her coffee all over the pretty white table cloth with how hard she laughed.

She caught them up on the development with the memory crystal and Calpernia. Dorian sat back, one leg crossed across his lap, and stroked his mustache. “The Inquisition has remarkably little on early Tevinter history. Now, if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, look no further. Perhaps the legends of Calpernia’s namesake will shed some light on her plans, aspirations—and Corypheus’s, as well.”

“We have some Genitivi,” Ixchel suggested.

“Pah. We need a rebellious heretic archivist, I’m afraid. Hm.”

“I might know a name or two,” Varric said.

“Good. Let’s find them… You know, what I _really_ need is a copy of the _Liberalum_. I’ll wager I can even find Corypheus’s real name. The luster would come right off for people like Calpernia who want to follow a god.“

Ixchel nodded. “Corypheus doesn’t have nearly my charm or charisma,” she said. “He _needs_ fancy titles to hide behind.”

“Ah, speaking of which we should work on your title scroll for the Imperial Ball.” Dorian snapped his fingers. “Vivienne and I have ever so much to do for you before you’re ready for the palace. Hope you didn’t have anything else planned today, hm?”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel followed along between the two tall mages like she were a child tottering between them. She was laden with packages that her friends had insisted upon purchasing: bolts of fabric, hair pins, bottles of cosmetics, _shoes_. So many _shoes_. They had spent the afternoon at nearly every single shop in Val Royeaux—including the _furntiture emporium,_ looking at beds for Skyhold—and now Ixchel stumbled, exhausted, with Vivienne and Dorian back toward the inn.

The two mages were throwing out titles to her:

“Lady Inquisitor Ixchel Lavellan,” Dorian said. “No, Inquisitor Lady Ixchel—”

“Herald of Andraste, Shepherd of the Order of Templars,” Vivienne msued.

“Dragon-Slayer!” Ixchel offered. “Look. Does it matter? They’re going to whittle one another down with words until they’re bored into agreement. Celene will talk circles around her thug cousin, Briala will glower and maybe stab her ex, and Gaspard will get completely sloshed.”

“Politics in a nutshell,” Dorian said cheerfully.

“It still matters,” Vivienne purred. “You may be there to stop an assassination and shame the detached leaders of this war, but there are more eyes—and ears—upon you than can even be counted in Orlais. Why, I heard the Prince of Starkhaven has been invited. And the Duke of Wycome. And of course—” her lip twitched up in the corner as she glanced at Dorian “—our friend from the north.”

Ixchel dropped a box of hats.

“I’m sorry,” she said coldly. “ _Wycome_?”

“Indeed. He is one of our allies, I believe,” Vivienne said.

Ixchel shoved the rest of her packages into Dorian’s arms. “What’s on Josephine’s agenda today?” she asked Vivienne as she stooped to pick up the hats.

“I believe she had a personal matter to attend to this evening with the Comte Boisvert,” Vivienne said. She fixed Ixchel with a keen look, but after a moment’s pause she took the hats from her. “Darling.”

Ixchel held her gaze.

Vivienne nodded. “Go on, then. Thank you for humoring us today.”

“I always humor geniuses,” Ixchel said. “I am sorry for running like this. But I gotta run.”

She tried desperately to remember where she and Josephine had once met the disguised House of Repose assassin for tea, and she burst onto more than one empty patio as she searched. Finally, she found it, with Josephine and the false-Comte just getting seated.

They both jumped as she barged in. “Ah! Your Worship!” Josephine gasped. “Wh—what are you doing here? My apologies, Comte!”

“No, no,” the assassin said, standing. “It is my honor! Please, join us, Your Worship.”

Ixchel crossed her arms over her heaving chest. “I—heh—apologize for the disturbance,” she puffed. “I hadn’t—ah—realized you were meeting with someone, Ambassador.” She ducked her head and tried to catch her breath.

“Is…I it an urgent matter, Lady Herald?” Josephine asked hesitantly.

Ixchel suddenly realized that Josephine was likely to ask her to grant her privacy—so before she could, Ixchel staggered on over to join the two at the table and sat heavily. “Forgive me, I find myself needing to catch my breath. Please, continue. I can be discrete.”

Josephine swallowed. “W-well then, Inquisitor.” She cleared her throat. “I had not wanted to trouble you, but I have been trying to reestablish my family’s trading relationship with Orlais, but when I dispatched paperwork…my couriers were murdered, and the documents restoring my family’s status were destroyed. Comte Boisvert has offered information about who killed my messengers.”

The masked man nodded his head and took a sip of his wine. “It’s an honor to assist two such distinguished guests.”

“I hope helping Lady Montilyet doesn’t endanger you,” Ixchel said, trying not to be flippant.

“Hardly, even a brush with someone such as yourself would buoy the reputation of anyone in Val Royeaux, particularly with an upcoming ball.” He set down his wine glass. “To the point, my ladies. Have you heard of the House of Repose?” The women nodded. “My contacts have discovered a document in their archives. A contract for a life. Or, rather, a _livelihood_.”

He slid the scroll to Josephine; it was browning at the edges, and flakes of the vellum were left on the table in its wake as she unfurled it.

 _“‘The House of Repose is hereby sworn to eliminate anyone attempting to overturn the Montilyets’ trading exile in Orlais.’”_ Josephine’s eyes were wide with dawning horror. She looked up at the assassin. “But the du Paraquettes died out as a noble line over sixty years ago!”

“Indeed. But the contract was signed _one-hundred-and-nine_ years ago.”

Ixchel cursed and leaned back. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so sour. The stupid legality is probably what helps us half the time…” She sighed.

“A contract is a contract, Inquisitor!” Josephine snapped. She handed the contract back to the false Comte with a snap of her wrist, then turned more fully to berate Ixchel. “We live and die by our reputations. The entire guild’s welfares would be endangered if an agreement was tossed aside on a whim of time or fate.”

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “I would think we could _all_ excuse _time_ , but I suppose not.”

“Unpleasant though it may be, the House of Repose is merely fulfilling its contractual duties,” the nobleman said. “The House of Repose is doing what it feels necessary, by its standards.”

“Alright, Josephine. You’re one of the smartest women I know. I’m sure you’ve got a plan already.” Ixchel nodded. “I’m no good with daggers, but I’ll do my best bardic impression and seduce whoever you might need me to.”

Josephine didn’t laugh. “The Du Paraquettes still have descendants in the common branch. If we elevate them to nobility, they could annul the contract.”

The assassin’s eyes flickered with surprise behind his mask. He tilted his head back to consider such a plan. “But that will take time, Lady Montilyet. Time in which the House will be obliged to hunt you.”

Josephine’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she and Ixchel exchanged a canny look. “Will they now?” Josephine asked. Ixchel sat back further, a show of non-aggression as Josephine turned and leaned forward to press: “Ah, but you are exceedingly well-informed, my friend. You said you had heard rumors at best.”

The man shifted in his chair—the first sign of unease he had shown throughout their conversation. “A bit of subterfuge,” he admitted. “This contract on your life is an ugly business, one the House of Repose deeply regrets. But this is Orlais. Even an assassin’s word is his bond.”

Ixchel glanced around. “Do you have the Comte stuffed in a barrel somewhere?”

The assassin chuckled. “You are as sharp as your axe, Lady Inquisitor. The Comte’s offer to aid Lady Montilyet was genuine—as was his information…somehow. An end to be tied up later. He slumbers in a nearby closet, no more.”

He stood. “Your idea to seek out a Du Paraquette to revoke our orders is an interesting one. I wish you luck.”

Ixchel stood with him and moved into the doorway.

He held up his hands amicably. “The contract on Lady Montilyet’s life was such an unfortunate circumstance, we felt obligated to extend the courtesy of an explanation. No blood need be shed today, Inquisitor.”

She searched his face behind his mask and committed it to memory. He was handsome, and young—but perhaps older than he seemed. He blinked at her slowly.

“Too cute for an assassin,” she mused. “So _delicate_. Perhaps you would be more successful as a dancer.” A flame caught in her mind, and she realized no--not a dancer. An actor from the opera. In fact, one of the most famous and handsome young stars of the Orlesian stage! _He_ was an assassin...? Of course.

“I apologize, Inquisitor. Is that a threat to break my knees?”

She stared at him. “What? No. I was…being genuine?”

He laughed openly. “You will run circles around Celene and Gaspard with your earnestness, I’m sure,” he said, and took her hand. He kissed her knuckles behind her satin glove, and then he slipped past her. “Happy hunting.”

Josephine leaped to her feet as soon as the assassin left. “Inquisitor! What was that about!”

“I have tons of assassin friends, Josephine,” Ixchel lied. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear that you were in danger? What were you thinking, coming alone!”

The Ambassador flushed. “I am the head of my household, and the lead diplomat for the Inquisition. I was _thinking_ that I can fight my own battles,” she said venomously. “Was it Leliana who sent you? I already told her I did not want her meddling in this matter!”

Ixchel shook her head. “I’m not trying to solve it for you, Lady Montilyet. I just want you to be safe.” She reached for Josephine’s hands. “No one ever believes me,” Ixchel grumbled. “Thom either. You tell me what we need to do to keep you alive, Josie, and I’ll do it.”

“I…” Josephine looked down at her with sparkling eyes. “Thank you, Inquisitor. Was there another matter you came running for…?”

Ixchel set her jaw. “Several.”

* * *


	55. What is Deserved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/24/20

Ixchel hadn’t even been present for the execution. It was over before she had even arrived to witness it. The crowd tittered as it dispersed, but no body hung from the gallows, and no former-Warden was to be found, so Ixchel sighed and went with Josephine to the town prison.

She listened detatchedly as her Ambassador spoke with the bailiff, and then finally Ixchel was allowed down into the dungeon. It was empty, save for the one prisoner.

“You saved him, Thom,” Ixchel said softly.

“But I destroyed his life,” he shot back. “And the lives of others like him. It’s time I pay for that. Why are you here?”

“I’d like to be able to uphold my world view,” she said. She leaned against the bars of his cell. “Unfortunately, it’s a bit of a two-way street. Redemption.”

“I do not deserve such a thing!” He leaped to his feet, but he could not meet her eyes.

Ixchel banged her head back into the bars and gave a groaning sigh that was nearly a scream of frustration. “No one does!” she snapped in reply. “No one! No one is born inherently good. The entire world is Blighted for whatever fucking reason you want to ascribe it to, but the world is a Blighted world, and it is full of morally corrupt people, and the fact that we still tolerate the existence of slavery across the seas is proof enough of that—and yet we are capable of goodness, Thom. And I have worked hard—so hard—clawed my way back from the darkest pits of the Deep Roads and breached the fucking _Fade_ to find the people I see the most good in and foster that in them.”

She rounded on him. “How dare you question my judge of character?” she asked disbelievingly. “How dare you make a mockery of my dream for a better world? What’s my alternative?” She reached through the bars of the cell and grabbed a fistful of his gambeson. “Find some Spirit of Goodness and copulate with it and have little Goodness babies and repopulate the world with them after Corypheus destroys this corrupt universe? Is there hope for us mortals or not, Thom?”

“Not for me,” he grumbled, and reached up to try and pry her hand off of him.

She tightened her grip.

“You bastard.” She shook him again roughly. “Look me in the eye. I command it.”

She waited an age before he finally managed it.

“Are you incapable of goodness, or just don’t think you can make up for what happened?” she demanded. When he didn’t answer, she shook him again. “Don’t talk in terms of ledgers. Nothing you do will ever make up for what you did. Fine. But look at the things you’ve done—all of them. The things you are capable of. The decisions you’ve made and followed through with. You cannot argue you don’t have potential! That your _lack-of-a-life_ making more of those decisions would be a waste and a loss! You are a kind man. A good instructor. You are a strong sword and you have _since then_ dedicated it to righteous causes. You are my _friend_. And if anyone understands how you’re feeling, it’s me. Because you understand how _I_ feel.”

Ixchel ran out of breath and stood, nearly holding herself up with her hold on his jacket.

She did not fight him as he peeled her fingers away, and he placed them gently, but firmly, on the bars of the cell. He backed away.

“Do what you will,” he said quietly.

“Do you trust me, Thom?” she asked.

He did not answer, and he turned away.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel was beginning to lose her grip.

She was just so tired—even in the Fade—and constantly thinking up new ways to hide in her own mind was becoming a near impossible task. She found herself retreading old memories, and she knew it was dangerous, but she couldn’t help it. Eluvians upon eluvians—tunnels beneath Dirthamen’s Temple—endless doorways. She knew she was really slipping when she slipped straight into the _memory-memories._ And the fantasies she couldn’t distinguish from memories.

Cullen looking at her with such bright, eager eyes over a chess board.

Getting caught hiding with Dorian in a broom closet, and passing it off as him seducing her, so that they could escape that noble’s party unscathed.

Teaching Cole how to dance to Maryden’s songs.

The utter silence of the ancient rotunda where Fen’Harel looked over the destruction of the Titan, and hid his heart with it…

Walking the contemplative musical paths of the Temple of Mythal.

It was a week into their stay in Val Royeaux when the Fearlings broke through and found her. She woke in a cold-sweat, a shriek on her lips, and the sight of the broken bodies of the Chargers strewn about on a beach once again impressed into her mind. She put the heels of her palms to her eyes and tried to catch her breath.

Only to lose it a second later as a hand snaked out of the darkness and clamped down on her mouth.

Ixchel suddenly found herself shoved back into bed, a glowing hand pressed over her mouth to stifle her shriek. She fought instinctively, but then the glow pulsed—rippled—up Fenris’s arm and illuminated his face, and she stopped.

She held her breath, trembling.

He eased his hand away and stepped back. “Sorry,” he said roughly. “I was…in the area, and I heard you scream. Don’t want your soldiers bursting in.”

Ixchel sat up slowly. “Uh. Hi, Fenris. Welcome to my room.”

“Here I was hoping to be invited here under more pleasant circumstances.” He leaned against the window and looked out of it warily; the moon caught his sharp features in stark relief, and when he looked back at her, she felt pinned under the gaze of a predator—and despite his words, _not_ in the _fun_ way. “I have news about your so-called Venatori.”

Ixchel nodded and waited.

“Don’t ask me how I found this information,” he warned, “but they’re aware of your…brushes with time magic. They know you’re heading to Halamshiral thinking you’re one step ahead of them.” He smirked. “Fortunately, they seem to be either too dumb or too proud to change their tactic much besides bringing in _more_ men for their ambushes. ”

She shrugged slowly. “Never thought it was going to be _easy_ to avert an apocalypse.”

“You’re going to need my help.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down. “But I would propose a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Ixchel tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “Sure. I can’t imagine anyone more experienced at killing magisters and slavers, except maybe my Qunari friend. Payment can be arranged, of course. Or however we can return the favor.”

His gaze shot guiltily to the corner of the room, shoulders hunching a little.

She pushed herself up more in her bed and crossed her legs. She continued to assess him with narrowed eyes. “The flirting. Are you trying to get back at Hawke or something?” she asked him sourly. “I’d rather not be a pawn for you two bitter fools.”

Ixchel felt her ears burning, but she kept her gaze steady. She thought of the Nightmare in the Fade, taunting Hawke with the death of his family, with Isabela’s flights, with the seeming inevitability of losing Fenris. Of how Hawke must have been so tired of fate snatching the people he loved away from him, that he gave himself over to the Nightmare just so he wouldn’t keep _fearing_ it would happen… “He thinks everyone he loves is going to die because of him, Fenris,” she told him, and her voice wobbled a little too much. “That’s why he ran away. You could have followed.”

A stifling silence settled in the room like a poisonous gas. Ixchel found herself holding her breath again under its weight.

“How long have you known him?” Fenris grunted at last.

“Not long enough.” Ixchel shrugged and picked at her blankets. “But…my lover ran, too. And I _did_ ask him to stay, but he left. Even worse, I knew he still loved me…it just wasn’t enough.” She shuddered involuntarily and looked away. “So yeah, maybe I know a thing or two about this shit, Fenris.”

“Would you have forced yourself on him, then?” Fenris asked roughly.

She nodded. “I tried,” she rasped. “But… I couldn’t. But _you’re_ taller than Hawke. You could force yourself along. He’d like that, from what I’ve gathered.”

Fenris snorted. “Really. _Taller_ is what you go for?”

Ixchel met his gaze. “Well. Look at me. You think I could force _anyone_ to do anything?” At the twisted, dark look that crossed his face, she allowed herself a short laugh. “Alright, well, I am the Inquisitor.” She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Fenris… Hawke needs you.”

Fenris shook his head. “People only use you for power, Inquisitor. Then they leave you. And Hawke…doesn’t need me.”

“Are you kidding?” Ixchel laughed again. “Isn’t that the point of love? To not need you, but to want you instead?” She rolled her eyes. “If both of you are going to spend your lives running from each other, too afraid to ask, you’ll _never_ know.”

“What do you know, woman?”

He pushed himself off of the windowsill and took a step in her direction. The lyrium tattoos in his skin flared, then rippled with energy. The hum was loud and strangely foreign to her, despite her many recent experiences hearing its song. This wasn’t the lyrium song, and it was—it was the song of Fenris’s skin, his heat, his anger. She winced as it swelled around her.

“I didn’t come here for _relationship advice._ And you have no right to speculate!”

“You’re right,” she said, “I don’t. Except that, like I said, I don’t want to be a pawn for two lovers to hurt each other with.” She glowered up at him through her hair. “I think I have a right to inquire about _that_.”

Fenris sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I…” He shook his head. “I’m not one for ulterior motives, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel ran a hand across her face wearily and scratched at her hair. “Well then, out with the motive-motive, Blue Wraith.”

The elf warrior retreated again to the window. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“We could be alone, together,” she suggested. “Have some fun while we’re at it. Is that what you were going for?”

He shrugged. “Well. When you put it that way, how could I refuse?”

She frowned. “How did this become _me_ propositioning _you_?”

“Good inquisiting, Inquisitor.” They shared a mutually tired grin. “It’s an option. Perhaps not now, then.”

“I’ll save you a dance at the ball, how’s that sound?” she teased.

He headed to the door, rather than exit through the window. “If by dancing, you mean murdering Venatori…it’d be my pleasure.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel stood in the snow of the Emprise and looked across the ravine at Judicael’s Crossing at Solas. He was shrouded all in black. His clothes were in tatters. His head was draped in a loose black hood, and his face was half-covered with a black scarf. At his shoulder was a wolf pelt—black, again.

He extended his hand, and not out of her own volition, she raised her hand to mirror him.

The light of the Anchor flared in her hand, and she looked down and found that out of the swirling lines of the mark were beginning to form the impression of the foci—and then it became solid, and she held Fen’Harel’s foci.

It was heavy and full of power. Its carved circuity glowed red, and it sang with the sickly-sweet-sad song of the Blight. It sang for Solas.

Would she give it to him, with all the taint it contained?

The ravine in front of her seemed to be growing ever wider.

“Come home,” she called out to him. Her voice was whipped away on the wind, and she could not be sure if he heard her. She did not know if this were a dream conjured from her subconscious mind or a vision with meaning or a true interaction with her lost friend in the Fade. “Come home and ask me.”

In her hand, the foci cracked.

The ensuing explosion woke her straight from her dream.

The Anchor was calm in her hand, and the morning was quiet around her. She took a deep breath, and she closed her eyes again. But there was a knock on her door a moment later.

“Your Worship,” Cassandra called. “You have a visitor.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel dressed quickly and went downstairs to see who had called for her so early in the morning. She was surprised to find a masked elf waiting for her in a private parlor on the second floor of the inn.

Ixchel allowed the door to close behind her, and then she stood and allowed Briala to drink in the sight of an elf leading a Chantry organization that would one day threaten empires. She could see the noble elf taking stock of her, from the Ardent Blossom in her hair to the vallaslin on her face to the clothes she wore and the fine axe that rested upon her back. When Briala’s keen eyes flicked back to her face from behind her mask, Ixchel could not tell quite what Briala made of her.

For her part, the “Ambassador” was dressed in fine clothes for a city elf, but not anything more precious than an imperial servant might be given. Perhaps that was something Ixchel could offer her, to help win her favor before the ball…

 _“An’daran Atish’an,_ Ambassador Briala,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Briala’s ear twitched at her accent, and Ixchel wondered if she heard the distinction between the traditional Dalish accent and the accent of her one-time companion and agent of Fen’Harel, Felassan.

“I have heard you are an earnest sort,” Briala said. “I came to see it for myself.”

“Tired of playing the Game, my lady?” Ixchel grinned. “I might offer a reprieve. But be warned: those who are used to playing swiftly tire of me, I find.”

Briala’s face was completely unchanged. “It is far easier to tell when an honest man is lying than it is to distinguish the different hisses of the gilded snakes. I doubt your _honesty_ would tire me, Inquisitor.” She gestured. “Would you care to sit?”

Ixchel set her axe against a wall and then came to join Briala at the table. “What would you like to discuss, Ambassador?”

“Rumors. Though I ostensibly have a seat at the table for negotiations between the Lions, I have not been privy to their reports. I could spend the effort and put my people in potential danger to seek confirmation—or I could ask you.” Briala clasped her hands delicately under her chin. “They say you have traveled in time.”

Ixchel nodded.

“And there is a Tevinter assassination plotted against the Empress.”

Ixchel nodded. There was a pause, but Ixchel did not offer any information; she waited to be asked.

“You do not look kindly on Celene or Gaspard.”

“Do you?” Ixchel raised a single eyebrow at the woman across from her.

“Celene is the voice of reason in the empire,” Briala said slowly, as though to impress significance and meaning to Ixchel. “But reason is cautious. Reason looks for compromise. Reason doesn’t choose radical change. However _sorely_ it may be needed. Gaspard is a warmonger. He served in the war against Ferelden and fought a dozen skirmishes on the Nevarran border. He’s simple man. Simple men aren’t hard to manipulate.”

“Where do you stand?” Ixchel asked. “Would you prefer to manipulate from the shadows of a throne, or push openly for the elves to be declared equal beings in the Maker’s eyes?”

“If the nobility is going to treat elves as if we are not citizens, we may as well have the trappings of a foreign power,” Briala said.

“You would reclaim the Dales for the elves, then. Remove the humans from the equation.”

Briala nodded. “I would think that is the wish of your clan as well.”

Ixchel shrugged. “The wishes of the Dalish clans are as varied as the stars, Ambassador.“

Briala’s lips pursed. “What is it that _you_ wish, then?”

“To avert calamity borne out by supremacists,” Ixchel said. “The Elder One would conquer the world in Tevinter’s name and subjugate it, for the glory of his people. There are others, Ambassador, who would do the same—in the name of humanity, or in the name of the elves, or under the auspice of the Qun.”

The Ambassador’s hands dropped to her lap. She leaned back and narrowed her eyes at Ixchel. “You would not support the rise of the elves?”

Ixchel met that gaze with a fierce one of her own. “I am called Herald, my lady, but I am not the Herald of Andraste. Neither am I the Herald of Mythal, or anyone else. I am the Herald of a new age in which I would see humans and elves, Templars and Mages, and people of all realms embrace each other’s inherent nobility, dignity, and worth. Do you see only the ‘knife-ears’ who live in the slums? Or do you see the _shems_ born without title who slave along with them?” She waited a beat. “Do you think that your new Dalish empire would not have slums, either, or servants?”

Briala did not answer.

“The vallaslin of Arlathan were slave brands, Briala,” Ixchel declared. “The Dales were not a paradise for elves, and we fell as much due to our own petty views as we did to the humans’s bigotry. But we have old blood, Briala. We have _mien’harel_ in our souls. We should aspire to be far more than just players on the _shem_ game board. No, a nation will not suffice.”

Ixchel gestured between herself and Briala.

“Who better to remind the city elves of _Thedas_ that they are of noble blood? Who better to call the Dalish out of the past and ask them to gaze upon a future no one has dared to imagine before? Who better to teach the poor among the _shems_ to rebel? Who better to learn from the mistakes of _empire_ and _gods_ and create something _new_? When we rise,” she said vehemently, “we must bring the downtrodden of all nations with us.”

Briala’s jaw clenched.

“And you would do so from within the system of oppression?” she demanded. “How? Why not secure a kingdom for such an experiment and lead by example, where you can control who plays such a game and enforce the rules of such a new world order?”

“A free nation will not stand long, alone, when the wolves are at the door,” Ixchel said. “A free nation can do nothing to stop the burning of an alienage across its border. A free nation is nothing compared to the united might of free-willed beings the world over, united to throw off the chains of their subjugation.”

“But as a free nation it would stand—and not lurk!”

“You _are_ tired of the Game,” Ixchel noted darkly. “It is a good thing I am not saying we should play it, then.”

Briala put one hand on the table and pushed slightly, pushed with her dark eyes, her pursed lips. “Forgive me, Lady Inquisitor. I do not know _what_ you are saying, then.”

“Don’t fear for your Empress, Briala,” Ixchel sighed. She tapped her fist lightly on the table and stood. “Helping people and killing people is what I’m best at. Play your Game. Win your crown. But make sure your kingdom looks nothing like this one, or you’ll find yourself burning slums to win favors and hiring bards to massacre servants just like the _shems_.” She picked up her axe and went to the door. Then, she paused. “Remember what I’ve said, Briala. In the days to come, you will find yourself at a _Crossroads_. My path is the brighter one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “An’daran Atish’an - The place you go is a safe place (welcome),


	56. Dances and Games in Orlais

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/25/20

Over the next several days, Ixchel kept herself quite busy. She would spend her mornings with some combination of Dorian, Vivienne, Josephine, or Leliana taking care of preparations for the ball at Halamshiral, or doing favors for Josie’s plan to lift up the du Paraquettes, or learning more about Calpernia, Samson, and Corypheus’s growing influence across Thedas.

Then, she would go up to her makeshift war room at the inn and deal with her correspondence and growing network of agents across Thedas.

In those days, she asked Josephine, Leliana, and Varric to surreptitiously prepare Aveline in Kirkwall for any push from Starkhaven. Cullen sent reports from his personal inspections of the Emprise operation; they had recruited Ser Michel to their cause, and his help was proving integral in establishing their presence in Orlais. Michel had taken swimmingly to a mentorship role among new recruits and officers, and he had seemingly taken quite a liking to the Inquisitor’s personal standards as a Champion.

Ixchel thought rather bitterly that he might like the shine of them, but he would never make them his armor. He would go back to Celene in a heartbeat, and she had heard his opinions about knife-ears and peasants, after all. Best thing to do was to keep him under Cullen’s stern eye and, most importantly, make sure he had nothing to do with eluvians or empresses.

Cullen also sent his analysis of the troop movements they were seeing in Tevinter and the Free Marches. Ixchel had warned Josephine and Leliana that, given the amount of red lyrium and ancient Elvhen ruins in the Free Marches, that they should keep an eye out for any suspicious activity; sure enough it seemed that the Venatori were circling Wycome in particular. Leliana resolved to get word to Deshanna and Terinelan.

In the meantime, Fiona checked in about her efforts to pacify Free Mage terrorist cells in eastern Ferelden; she and the other former First Enchanters were able to ascertain that most of the terrorists were young and clearly in far above their heads, and with the help of the Inquisition’s Templar allies, they were able to rescue and recruit most of them while separately neutralizing the rebel leaders. They would await justice from the Inquisitor personally, as King Alistair had decidedly wiped his hands of the matter.

Nowhere among the missives did Ixchel see mention of Solas, or of Briala.

After such afternoons, Ixchel would come down from her makeshift war-room to meet Varric, Bull, Dorian, and Josephine for their new nightly routine of playing Diamondback in the private parlor that the Inquisition had taken over during their stay in Val Royeaux. Sometimes, Fenris joined them; it usually meant that he had gained more information about Calpernia and the Magisters’ movements in northern Orlais, which he would dictate to Varric under his breath in-between hands.

Ixchel had started to relax a little around Fenris; it was easy to adopt a biting back-and-forth that was almost business-like when he was around, and it was even easier when she was drinking. Most nights, she had to be carried upstairs, hoping to be so incapacitated that no fears broke in to her dreams. It seemed to work for the most part, and she was slowly rebuilding her tolerance to _shem_ alcohol—another vital preparation for Halamshiral.

It also made some nights exceedingly lonely, when she didn’t fall immediately fall into a drunken stupor upon reaching her rooms.

She found herself thinking of Fenris’s awkward offer more and more often, but it seemed that neither of them would act soon. After all, the barbs were safe and unassuming and something like camaraderie.

One evening, Dorian took Ixchel aside before she could head to the parlor.

“Leliana has passed a letter on to me,” he said.

Ixchel blinked at him.

“From my _father_.”

Ixchel’s jaw dropped. She certainly had not been expecting that, _here_.

He spirited her into his private room and threw down the offending paper on his desk. “It seems our dear old Mother Giselle has been corresponding with my family for several weeks now. I suspect she’s trying to find a way to get me out of your hair—a corrupting influence, I’m sure!”

Ixchel guffawed and went over to pick up the letter. “Yes, yes, a corrupting influence on the Dalish atheist savage!”

His anger briefly faltered, and his brow eased. He chuckled. “Yes, quite. Regardless, my father has asked for the Inquisition’s _chaperones_ to arrange a meeting between me and my father’s agents, without me being aware of it. Of course, I’d never come if I knew.” He gestured dismissively at the letter. _“‘I know my son,’_ the letter says. What my father knows of me could barely fill a thimble! This is so typical! I’m willing to bet this ‘retainer’ is a henchman, hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter.”

He had begun to pace, and his gesticulations had grown angry once again. Ixchel moved to trip his humor again: “I’m sure he thinks _I’m_ a bad influence on you.”

But Dorian was so swept up in it, he didn’t laugh. He turned to her, his hand raising to twirl the corner of his mustache. “Leliana thinks it could be the Venatori, but this looks like my father’s penmanship and I doubt he’d join the likes of Corypheus.”

“So what do you want to do? We could set Fenris on him, like a dog,” Ixchel offered, then winced at herself.

“No, no. You’re plenty good at killing people.” Dorian frowned at her. “The meeting is meant to take place here, in Val Royeaux. If it’s an ambush—well, no fancy café in Orlais is a stranger to a little bloodshed now and then, and if it’s not, I send the man back to my father with the message that he can stick his alarm in his ‘wit’s end.’”

Ixchel grinned at him and threw herself down in an armchair. “We _could_ pretend to be _bad influences_ upon one another,” she offered. “There’s a scandalous new dress Vivienne picked out that I can’t imagine I’d wear anywhere else.”

Dorian waggled his eyebrows. “Why not wear it to our nightly Diamondback game, _mula_?” he teased.

Ixchel’s smile slipped. She dropped the letter on the end table and folded her arms across her chest defensively. But she asked, “You think?” begrudgingly.

“I don’t pretend to have the slightest clue what’s going on with you and Solas,” he proclaimed. “So I can offer no advice on _that_ front. But he’s a handsome man, that Fenris.”

Ixchel tucked her chin and looked up at Dorian through her lashes. “I knew Solas would run from loving me the moment I met him,” she admitted. “And I was right. It’s a strange place to be…we both sort of acknowledged it without talking about it, and now I’m just…his and not his, and he’s not mine at all.”

“Well that sounds to me like bad judgment on his part, and nothing to do with you,” he proclaimed. When she didn’t respond, he crossed the room to perch on the arm of her chair. His face was the picture of sympathy. “You’re allowed to be happy, and free, and pursue who you want,” he said firmly. “You have the right to ask people you love to stay with you. You deserve to have meaningful _or_ meaningless relationships as you might want.”

“I believe that, intellectually,” she sighed.

Dorian put his hand on her head. “Then do that thing you’re wont to do, _mula_! Go do the thing you’re _afraid_ of but intellectually _certain_ of, and it’ll all work out just fine! How many times must you prove that to yourself?”

She sank lower in her chair. “I’d rather not get in the way of Hawke and him,” she muttered.

“Well, from what Varric has told me, that _entire_ cohort was quite promiscuous amongst themselves, so I wouldn’t worry too much.” Dorian chuckled. “If it isn’t what you want, don’t do it. But to be frank, my dear, you don’t seem to indulge very often.”

“I have a world to save,” she replied quietly.

“It will always be so,” he sighed.

“So it seems.”

-:-:-:-:-

Dorian positively sparkled amid all the finery of the café. He had spent several hours deliberating over his outfit—should he wear his best, or his worst, or his second-best outfit?—and finally decided on looking as well-off and magisterial as he possibly could. He certainly succeeded: his white shoulder armor was polished to such a dewy finish, he seemed to glow, and the royal sea silk of his brocade caught the light like gauze. All of his adornments were from the marvelously striped Great Bear they had felled in the Emerald Graves, to striking effect.

Ixchel, likewise, had dressed up; since she had a feeling that Dorian’s father was truly going to make an appearance, she had foregone the armor for once. Instead, she wore a sleeveless gray robe that wrapped asymmetrically around her, baring one leg to her hip with every step. The inner lining was red, and it caused a warm glow on any surface she approached—and it matched the Ardent Blossoms quite nicely. She had gotten back in the practice of doing eye and lip makeup now that Vivienne was providing the materials, and she batted her lashes against a background of a wildfire sunset, and her lips dripped the richest maroon poison. Her shoes clip-clopped loudly across the cobblestones, and paired with her outfit she had brought a longsword instead of her usual claymore, hammer, or axe.

Now they stood in the Orlesian café and looked quite like they belonged there as decorations themselves, rather than guests.

And there were no guests.

“Uh-oh. This doesn’t bode well,” Dorian tutted.

But as Ixchel looked around, she spotted a shadow moving—and recognized Magister Pavus.

“Dorian.”

Dorian turned to stare at his father.

And stared.

The silence dragged on until Ixchel gave a polite cough and nudged Dorian a step further into the room.

“So…the whole story about the ‘family retainer’ was just…what?” Dorian asked. “A smoke screen?”

“Then you were told.”

“We have one of the most capable spy networks in the world, Father,” Dorian said shortly.

“I… Never intended for you to be involved, Inquisitor.” The Magister bowed his head.

Dorian curled his lip. “Of course not. Magister Pavus couldn’t be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think? And in Orlais, even worse—to be seen with a wild Dalish elf?” Dorian took a menacing step toward his father. “What is this, exactly, Father? Ambush? Kidnapping?”

“Warm family reunion?” Ixchel offered.

Magister Pavus sighed. “This is how it has always been,” he said to Ixchel ruefully.

“No, don’t fall back into habits, either of you,” she said, holding up the hand that held the Anchor. “You went through all of this to get Dorian here. Talk to him.”

“Yes, Father. Talk to me. Let me hear how mystified you are by my anger.”

“Dorian, there’s no need to—”

“The Inquisitor and I _do_ like to pretend as though family doesn’t exist,” Dorian drawled, “but if you insist, then I’ll dredge it up. My family hates the fact that I enjoy the company of men. Not news to you, my dear Ixchel, but why should it be? Unless you’re the eldest and only son of a family of boot-licking social climbers! Every Tevinter family is intermarrying to distill the perfect mage, perfect body, perfect mind. The perfect leader.”

“Seems like you succeeded then, Magister Pavus,” Ixchel said with a cool smile.

Dorian actually paused. “Quite,” he agreed.

“This display is uncalled for.”

“No, it _is_ called for,” Dorian spat, rounding on his father. “You _called_ for it by luring me here. You called for it by raising the issue in the first place, and not taking ‘no’ for an answer. You called for it—”

“This is not what I wanted,” the Magister pleaded quietly, weakly.

“I’m _never_ what you wanted, Father, or had you forgotten!”

“Dorian, please. If you’ll only listen to me…”

Dorian stalked toward his father, gesticulating wildly with his fist. “This man, he taught me to hate blood magic,” he said to Ixchel, though his gaze was pinned on his father. “‘The resort of the weak mind,’ those are _his_ words. But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?” He twirled around, back to his father. “You tried to _change_ me.”

“I only wanted what was best for you!” the Magister protested, but he couldn’t raise his eyes from the floor when he said it.

“You wanted the best for _you_!” Dorian snarled. “For your fucking legacy!”

The mage turned and rounded on the bar, his hands planted wide to support himself. Ixchel followed him and put her hand on his shoulder soothingly. She looked at Magister Pavus with a half-lidded, disapproving gaze. “Why did you come, Magister?”

“Dorian… If I knew I would drive you to the Inquisition…”

Ixchel bristled. “Oh, so it’s me that’s the bigger problem?” she snapped. "I'm sure that's a comfort."

“I’m sure the ears don’t help,” Dorian said under his breath with a dark chuckle. He took a deep breath, then rounded on his father slowly. “ _You_ didn’t,” he said harshly. “I joined the Inquisition because it’s the _right_ thing to do. Because my homeland is being threatened! Because it was a chance for me to polish the tarnished reputation of the Imperium among the south! Because people were going to be hurt—and I have the power to do something about it!” Dorian threw his hands up. “Once I had a father who would have known that.”

Dorian’s father hung his head, and Dorian turned to storm toward the door.

Ixchel watched as Magister Pavus took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and braced himself as though ready for a blow to the face.

“Once, I had a son who trusted me. A trust I betrayed. I only wanted to talk to him. To hear his voice again. To ask him to forgive an old fool.”

Dorian froze in the doorway.

Ixchel exhaled slowly and headed to the door. She could hear Magister Pavus let loose a ragged breath as she went, but when she reached the door, she turned, tipped Dorian’s chin up with her knuckle, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “I can tell you what _not_ having a father is like,” she said. “But maybe you could tell me what it’s like to have one.”

She walked out, but Dorian did not follow.

Ixchel was beaming as she walked down the streets of Val Royeaux, which was an unusual enough sight that she attracted many strange looks—and some unwanted attention from a group of men who looked quite like plainclothes Chevaliers. She skirted down an alley and emerged along the water at the for northwestern side of town, where she felt, at the very least, she could leap into the water and swim down to the main plaza if she truly needed to make a grand escape.

She did kick off her fancy shoes there, because she knew the heels would get caught in the slats of the wooden docks, and Vivienne would _kill_ her.

Ixchel continued to lope along, barefoot as any Dalish ever was, but soon found that the pack of Orlesian dogs had split up to cut her off.

Ixchel sighed and glanced behind her to find she was surrounded.

“Ho there, knife-ear,” a thickly-accented voice drawled. “Did you steal your mistress’s robes to dodge your duties?”

“Look at her face, Patrice,” one of his companions chuckled. “It’s one of those wild rabbits, putting on airs.”

Ixchel dangled her shoes from one hand, and she raised the other, letting the Anchor flare. “I am the Inquisitor, my feathered friends,” she said in her silkiest voice. “I suggest you scurry back to your Chantry and pray for some forgiveness for the _dirty_ words that have left your mouth. Unless you’d like me to wash them out with blood, and your teeth.”

It was quite a well-delivered threat, but sadly it seemed wasted on the brutes. She flexed the fingers of her left hand and began to dance lightly on her feet, turning swiftly between them as they approached her on all sides.

“Nothing good ever comes of rabbits thinking they have teeth,” a man said. “We should pull them out.”

In just a moment, they would all be close enough for her to detonate the Anchor, or to open a small tear and suck the life out of them. She shifted on the balls of her feet again to face the larger group of men with her narrowed eyes and enticing smile.

“Oh-ho, she seems eager for a dance partner, don’t you think?”

“I’d rather like to use those filthy flaps as reigns, wouldn’t you? Perhaps a crack of the whip—”

There was a flash of light and a sickening crunch from behind Ixchel. She, and the Chevaliers, turned around in shock and horror to find the man swaying on his feet—with a very large hole in the center of his chest.

His body fell with a heavy, dull _thud_ , to reveal the lanky and very spiky elf behind him. Fenris glowed and glowered, and he let the man's heart fall to the ground out of his blood-soaked hand.

“Perhaps a few cracked ribs would do everyone good. Any takers?” he snarled at them.

Ixchel sighed. It would have been easier to take them all out in one-go with the Anchor. But if there was to be a fight… She flung her shoes as far from the water’s edge and from the brawl as she could. Hopefully, they wouldn’t get any blood on them—and hopefully, no urchin would steal them while she was otherwise occupied.

The sound of her shoes clattering to the cobblestones broke the spell that had fallen over the Chevaliers. They lunged, cursing, into a fray that doubtless each of them knew they would lose. They hardly seemed armed—Chevaliers were hardly _bards_ , after all—and they could not stand against Fenris’s magic and greatsword, nor could they match Ixchel’s physicality and a two-handed grip on her sword.

When they were done, Ixchel pushed the bodies into the harbor with her bare feet and sighed as she saw the blood between her toes.

“Ahem.”

Ixchel slung her longsword over her shoulder and looked up at Fenris. He gestured down at his chest, and she glanced down to find that her robe had come loose at the hip and now gave him a very good view of her breastband, ribs, and stomach.

She raised her eyebrows at him and grinned. “I did promise you a dance, Fenris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deciding whether to up this to E or not, or to put the NSFW chapter in another place. lmk if you have any opinions


	57. We Can Never Be Friends **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** "why are you here" by machine gun kelly plays in background angstily **
> 
> 11/25/20

It was like she had loosed a bolt from a crossbow; Fenris had her up against a wall in a heartbeat. His heavy hands slid bloody-slick across her ribs as his mouth met hers in a frenzied clash of teeth and lips. Battle-lust still pounded through her veins and powered her limbs, and she responded in kind to his fervor. Their tongues grappled between them as he lifted her and she hooked her legs behind his back, pressing him closer—she groaned into him as the metal of his breastplate seared into her skin, warmed by his body but cool in comparison to the heat of her own. She felt like she burned, in the dying Orlesian sun; she was a flare: _touch me, touch me, I must be touched._

It had been so long.

Fenris ground against her, following a feral rhythm that she could feel humming in the air between them—it was the pulse of the lyrium, his pulse beneath his armor, his ragged breaths in her mouth. She arched her back and dragged him closer. Ixchel kept her hands hooked in the straps of his armor for purchase and gave herself fully over to the relentless flood of sensation. Leather and metal under her hands, against her chest, blood and callouses on her hips and her neck, and the long, firm line of his body pressed against every inch of her like a wall, like a weapon. He smelled like blood and sweat and lyrium: a battle, contained in a man.

Fenris’s lips dropped from hers to her ear, and he breathed: “My place?”

“I suppose it can’t get much bloodier.”

They laughed roughly.

He set her down, and she fetched her shoes. It was not a long walk to the merchant’s now-empty apartments, but her control over her legs was tenuous, and she feared that she teetered behind Fenris like the worst day-drinker headed back from a soiree. Her head spun a little, too.

She wondered giddily if he had heard the commotion, or if he had been out and about, or if he had even been following her. A hot wire coiled in her chest as she thought of that.

When he shouldered open the door and led her in, however, she felt suddenly cold, and quite a bit shy. She set her shoes and her sword against the wall by the door and then turned, arms crossed over her chest as she looked around.

It seemed that Fenris had been sleeping on the fancy Nevarran carpet by the hearth, judging from the nest of clothes and blankets he had made for himself there. He glanced back at her from where he had begun to work his armor off. “I have a mansion back in Kirkwall,” he said ruefully. “Though I often found myself sleeping on the floor there, now that I think of it.”

“I’m no stranger,” she replied with a smile. She padded over to the desk and hopped up on to it; it didn’t help with the height much, but she felt better with something solid beneath her. She held out a hand for him, and he drew closer, halfway out of his shoulder armor.

She made quick work of the buckles and straps. His hands remained politely at his sides as she stripped him of his armor, and when her hands slowed at the collar of his undershirt, he raised an eyebrow at her.

“It’s been a while,” she admitted.

“Hm.”

Fenris took her face in both hands and looked down at her from beneath stark lashes; this close, she could see how different his tattoos were from the vallaslin of the Dalish. Deep channels had been carved into his chin, and then she imagined the lyrium had been applied into the bleeding wounds and cauterized. Even now, in their dormant state, they glowed softly—and they sang, always, angry with pain and burning trauma.

His eyes roamed her face just the same, following the line of Dirthamen’s raven where it had landed upon her brow down to her kiss-bruised lips. His fingers curled behind her ears, and his thumbs brushed against the corners of her jaw.

“Now that’s a pity.”

They considered each other.

“I…heard that touching you causes you pain.”

“Perhaps I want to hurt right now,” he replied huskily. “Don’t you?”

Ixchel glanced at the Anchor in her palm.

Then, she clenched her fist around it, around the collar of his shirt, and dragged him down to kiss her again in lieu of a reply. She made swift work of his shirt, and, once she had enough skin bared, she dug her fingers into the bones of his hips and dragged him closer. With their hips joined, she, satisfied, released him to his own devices and allowed her hands to hungrily catalogue his scars, his markings, the taught muscles coiled in his back and shoulders. Everywhere she touched, the lyrium flared, the song crescendoed, and the Anchor fell into resonance with new magic.

A throaty groan echoed into her mouth as he rutted against her; Fenris undid the tie of her gown without preamble, then gathered her up, hand in the small of her back and another pressed tight between her shoulders to catch at the ends of her hair, and he pressed her close.

Skin to skin again, they were a completed circuit. Ixchel dragged her nails lightly around his ribs and back around to his front, where she could reach for his hair and guide his head to kiss her more deeply. In response, he dragged her head back by the hair and denied her, instead dropping his mouth to her ear, her neck. She hissed through her clenched teeth, and when he sucked viciously at her neck and sank his teeth into the tense cord that ran ‘tween her ear and the juncture of her shoulder, she thought she might fall over the edge then and there.

It had been _so long._

Her tight grip on him tipped him over her physically, and he bent her back, supported in his hands alone, over the desk. Her breath caught in her throat, waiting to fall, or to push, but he held her suspended there—perhaps inches above the desk—and connected to him at the hip where his erection pressed insistently through his breeches against her. His teeth and tongue still worked at her neck, her collarbone, her sternum now, ignoring the scars and burns that were concentrated there. When his teeth found the peak of her breast through the cloth of her band, she released a startled laugh, and he chuckled darkly against her chest.

Then he released her, and she fell back the last inch onto the desktop.

She lay spread beneath him as he shrugged out of his undone shirt and began unlacing his breeches.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said earnestly, “with a beautiful name. It’s shaped like something familiar.”

She bit her lip. “I found it in an ancient elvhen ruin,” she said.

“It sounds Tevene,” he replied.

“Who knows?” She shrugged her bare shoulders, then twisted impatiently to undo her breastband behind her back. “After being slaves for over a thousand years, after having our language beaten out of us by the masters, would it be surprising to fill in the loss with Tevene?”

Fenris caught her by the wrists and dragged them back to either side of her head. He pressed them there pointedly, then set to work on the hooks of her breastband himself. “And now you use it to strike fear in the hearts of Orlesian nobles and Tevinter Magisters alike.” He smirked at her, and he tossed her breastband aside. His heavy, calloused hands cupped her breasts, and he bent forward to kiss her again. “My hero,” he murmured against her lips.

He was completely naked against her, hot and lithe between her legs, and it wasn’t enough—not nearly. As she threw her head back to allow him access to her neck again, she simultaneously reached between them to catch his length in her hand and gasped at the searing heat of his flesh. She could feel the full-body reaction of him as she pulled him closer with firm, sliding strokes and he braced his forehead against her shoulder for a moment to steady himself. Nothing made her feel quite so powerful as having the Blue Wraith shuddering at her touch.

Part of her had been concerned for their rather severe height difference, but when he had decided he’d had enough of her ministrations, he put her worries to rest by pulling back, flipping her over, and diving down to place several serious nips on her inner thighs that left her muscles twitching. His breath was hot against her skin but icy on the wet trail left by his tongue, and she swallowed hard as he pushed her smalls to the side and dove in to taste her without any further delay.

In this position, she had nothing to occupy herself with: no lips to kiss, no sheets to grab, no skin to caress. She was fully at the mercy of his mouth, and, as she discovered, Fenris was quite merciless. He had been taught well, and it wasn’t long before her toes were curling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as she braced herself. It was so strange, that her body would want to propel her forwards and away from his wicked tongue.

When he finally entered her, it was swift and without warning and she yelped loudly at the intrusion. His body flattened against her, and he wrapped her up in his lyrium-laced arms and held her tight as she adjusted, shivering all the while. He pressed more kisses to her back where he could reach, gentler they had been before, and murmured something in Tevene she didn’t quite catch.

At last, she adjusted the position of her hips and pushed back against him. “Let’s go, Fen,” she gasped over her shoulder. He caught her lips, kissed her temple, and then bowed over her to acquiesce.

The pace they found thereafter was unforgiving upon both of them—but she _did_ want to hurt. She found herself reduced to a howling mess, hair dragged back in his fist, his other hand squeezing her throat as she came again and again thanks to the combined work of her hand between them and the deep thrusts of his hips. He gathered her up, back to his chest, and sat back in an armchair to continue their fun—and oh, the fun lasted long into the night. Hesitation had passed into frustration, and laughter came next as they defiled the former slaver’s home with their coupling. Lastly followed joy at one another’s release, the freedom with which they begged each other for more.

Over the course of the night, Ixchel discovered that beneath Fenris’s fringe were three dots of lyrium pressed into his forehead. She studied the markings and guessed they were some bastardized interpretation of ancient vallaslin, possibly to June or Elgar’nan, though she didn’t speak her thoughts aloud. He said he would learn what she liked, if she showed him; he praised her in language he knew, in the ways he was familiar. It was the language of pets, of slaves and child servants. Such a thing wouldn’t have sat well with her if it had been anyone else, but his deeply-satisfied groans of “good girl” pleased her more deeply than she could have anticipated.

Many times, they found themselves curled against one another’s sticky form beside the fire, wading out of a dream and into each other’s arms again with insistent touches and searching kisses. But at last, Ixchel fell into a deep, deep sleep, and entered the Fade.

She found Solas waiting for her.

He was still at a distance, obscured as if by a snowstorm, or by the melting air of the desert, but she heard him speak:

“Lethallan, I am returning soon.”

“I miss you,” she called back, but her voice was so angry that she surprised herself.

The Fade trembled, but he didn’t rise to her anger. He simply replied:

“And I you.”

And like that, he was gone, and she was falling into the slipstream of dark unconsciousness once again.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke to a bright, painful glow, but it wasn’t the Anchor for once.

Instead, it was Fenris having a nightmare.

They certainly _were_ made for each other, and Varric didn’t know the half of it.

Ixchel rolled out of the nest of blankets and carpet and out of the way of Fenris’s twitching limbs, in case he might accidentally discharge his power against a dreamed-threat and catch her heart on accident. She held her breath for a moment, observing his troubled sleep and trying to determine how fatal it might be to try and wake him, and how she might go about it in the gentlest way possible.

“Fen,” she said sharply, loud to pierce the haze of his dreams, and she moved to touch his foot.

When he rolled over quick as lightning and tried to kick her hand off of his ankle, she fell back with her hands up. The lyrium hissed and thrummed; its light filled his eyes and even his mouth as he snarled at her—

The tension left his shoulders first, slowly, and then he buried his face in his hands and let out a shuddering exhale.

“I’m so sorry,” he groaned.

“I get them too,” she said. She crawled back to her place beside him and stretched out again, careful not to touch him. “Very often, in fact.”

He nodded into his hands. “I could tell from looking at you. The anger. The pain.”

Ixchel rolled on to her back and ran a finger idly along the scar that bisected her chest, from a Sentinel in the Arbor Wilds, while they both breathed in silence. _The anger,_ she thought to herself, and reflected on the anger she had felt in her dream. It still coiled, pulsing and hot, in her throat—enough to make her grit her teeth.

It was not often that she allowed herself to be angry directly at Solas. She knew that, like love, it was a useless tactic in the war she was waging against his obstinate and doomed world view; loving him, and raging at him, were the two swiftest ways to drive him from her side and make him reject her efforts on reflex. More often, she found herself latching onto similar-enough anger and channeling it into speeches made within earshot of him.

_Mar solas ena mar din._

But she _was_ angry. She was angry that he had turned her into this dark, twisted woman who denied herself everthing she wanted because of her duty. She was angry that he had made her aware of such terrible world-ending secrets. Once, she had wanted children of her own. Once, she had wanted to apply to the universities in Orlais on one of Celene’s rare scholarships. Once, her highest aspiration had been to wear the vallaslin of a Dalish Clan and provide for her people in little ways: hunting, singing, translating. All that had been lost in the face of the two apocalypses he had brought upon her world. Even now, guilt ate at her for dallying here and satiating her more fanciful desires—guilt he had placed in her with his ever-looming threat in the back of her mind.

She had been angry at Dorian, but _he_ wasn’t the one who had ruined her life.

She was angry that she couldn’t allow herself to be angry at Solas.

Ixchel offered him a thin smile and raised her hand in his direction. He took it in one of his own and contemplated it wearily. His face was thin and gaunt in the light of his tattoos, and she wanted to trace the lines of his face again, kiss him, but she could tell from the ginger way he held her hand that he still ached.

“Fen,” she said softly, to call his eyes to her face. “I have something to tell you.”

He pulled her upright, and she reached for a blanket to wrap around her shoulders as she sat cross-legged in front of her. “I’ve had several encounters with time magic, actually,” she told him. “In one of those encounters, I saw Hawke die.”

Every muscle in Fenris’s body tensed.

“We were facing a powerful Nightmare demon. It harassed him the whole time: that nothing he did mattered, that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t save Kirkwall, and he wasn’t going to save us, and of course, you were going to die, just like his family and everyone else he ever cared about.” She looked away. “We got in a bind. We weren’t going to be able to escape unless someone drew the fire away from the group. And Hawke…”

Fenris buried his face in his hands again.

Ixchel swallowed what felt like a glass in her throat, and she noticed with a detached sense of amusement that her throat was sore from the night’s activities.

“I didn’t know him well. It was heroic and it was sad and it saved us. But it was also stupid and desperate and _despairing_. He clearly thought it was the best option."

“Fine,” Fenris grunted. “Fine. Fine!”

He glared at her between his fingers. “Where. When.”

“When I thwart Corypheus’s assassination attempt, he’s going to try and muster an army of demons out in the Western Approach.” Ixchel bit her lip. “I don’t know how things will play out after the ball, but I imagine I’ll be headed there shortly afterward to meet Hawke and his Warden contact.”

“Tell me everything.”

Ixchel did, slowly, in fits and bursts. She told him of the siege, and how many people had been lost, and what she planned to do differently. And as she spoke, Ixchel realized something she hadn’t quite accepted before:

She absolutely could not allow them to fall into the Fade again.

It didn’t matter if the Nightmare had stolen memories from her. It didn’t matter if it would harass her until the day she died. The Nightmare knew too much, had seen too much—and it was far too powerful. There was no way they would make it out of a confrontation with it without _some_ loss.

“I have to be there,” Fenris said. “I never should have let him leave. I never should have left.” He shook his head vehemently. “I don’t even know which one of us is at fault anymore! We are both fools.”

“Join the club,” she sighed. She bowed forward and pressed a kiss to his knee. “You are welcome to come,” she told him. “I would be glad to have you fighting at our side, Blue Wraith. And when it comes time, I will not stop you from leaving, if you decide to.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel and Fenris suffered quite the walk of shame returning to the inn; in the early morning stillness, where dawn’s newborn light illuminated the world in purest golds and silvers, their disheveled, bloodstained, and sex-soaked state was all the more apparent. They approached from a back alley and Fenris helped her climb up to her rooms through a discrete window on the third floor.

They bathed together and looked one another over once they’d dressed again—but there was no hiding the signs of their coming together, not really. Ixchel shrugged on a fur mantle and pulled it tight about her neck, but she only looked more suspicious. She’d have to suffer the indignity of asking one of her mages to heal the love bites and bruises.

She affixed the Ardent Blossom in her hair once again. When she was done, Fenris kissed her temple, and when she turned to face him, kissed her chastely on the lips. “Thank you for telling me,” he said.

“We’ll figure this out,” she promised.

He nodded and escaped through her window again.

When she crept down the hall to knock on Dorian’s door, he threw it open immediately, as though he had been waiting just on the other side. He dragged her into his room and closed the door quickly.

“ _Mula!”_ he cried.

“Dorian.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at him. “How’d things with your father go?”

“No, no, no,” Dorian protested. He dragged her over to the armchair and sat her down. “You must tell me everything first. Nightingale passed me a note not to worry when you didn’t come home and _Maker’s breath,_ Ixchel, what a note it was!”

“Leliana,” she cursed, but she was smiling as she let her mantle slip aside.

Dorian gasped. “I had no idea you had it _in_ you,” he purred. He reached for her with healing hands even as he spoke. “How was it? How do you feel? Do the tattoos go…all the way, if you know what I mean?”

Ixchel craned her neck back, wincing a little as she stretched muscles sore from hair-pulling and back-arching all night long. “I think it’s what I needed,” she admitted.

Dorian chuckled. “You think?”

“I think I forget how to be a woman, sometimes.” She ran a hand across her face and yawned. “And for someone who kills a lot of things, all the time, I guess I have some pent up…aggression.”

“You’re a passionate woman, my love.” Dorian squeezed her shoulder lightly.

When it became clear that Dorian was not going to be able to pull any real salacious details out of her, he sighed. He went to the window while she buttoned her shirt back up. “He says we’re alike,” he said softly. “Too much pride.”

“Your father?” Ixchel blinked at him, at the choice of words.

“Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now, I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him. He tried to change me, you know. Out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away.” He looked back at her briefly, and in the morning light she saw the deep circles beneath his eyes; she realized that he had likely been up all night considering his father’s words. “Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “But the blood ritual… It could have emptied you. Left you worse than Tranquil.”

“It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal,” Dorian said softly.

“He raised you, Dorian. You’re a man of principle and passion. But you’ve surpassed him on all counts, and that’s difficult—for you and for him.” Ixchel rested her cheek on her palm and frowned at him.

“I can’t forgive him for what he did. I won’t.” Dorian shook his head. “He still refuses to admit what he had planned was wrong. He wanted to apologize for how I reacted, not for the act, not for his desire to have a normal son in the first place. Which leaves us at an impasse.”

“Dorian,” she called softly.

He returned to her side and took her hand. They gazed at each other for a long moment.

“You have to fight for what’s in your heart,” he said firmly. “We cannot pretend to be something we’re not, to hide our desires away, my lady.”

Ixchel kissed his hand gently. “We’re in it together, _lethallin_ ,” she sighed.


	58. Canticle of Trials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/25/20

The days continued to slip by without sign of Solas, and the day they would need to leave for Halamshiral swiftly approached. Ixchel was satisfied, at least, that she and Josephine had made quite the headway in initiating the du Paraquette’s elevation, and they would be able to ingratiate themselves some more with the Council of Heralds at the Winter Palace. But the trail to Calpernia had run cold for the moment, and Ixchel was growing discontent with spending her time so frivolously: pastries and gambling and late-night trysts with Fenris.

She began to itch for an escape.

That was when Leliana took Ixchel aside for tea.

“I have received a letter, Inquisitor,” Leliana declared. “From the Divine.”

“A contingency plan?” Ixchel guessed.

“Perhaps. It has instructed me to go to a small village chantry in Valence, upon the Waking Sea.” Leliana lay her hand on the table beside her teacup and sat very still; Ixchel guessed that it took a great deal of Leliana’s concentration to keep from fidgeting at that moment. “Whatever she hid in Valence would very likely benefit the Inquisition and must be kept from falling into the wrong hands. If I’m lucky, she will have instructions for me.”

“Is it an important place, to you, or to her?”

“Justinia was revered mother at the Chantry there for many years before she became Divine… It is where I first met her. She was just Dorothea then, a revered Mother.” Leliana pursed her lips. “It was a place of comfort, and peace.”

Ixchel offered her a small smile. “Then it will be good for you to go.”

Leliana smiled back, more of a reflex than anything genuine. “The letter is a little cryptic. I have my code breakers, of course, but I would not spare them for such a personal matter. And it is somewhat on our way from here to Halamshiral… I mean to ask this: would you come with me to Valance, Inquisitor?” she asked.

“Of course, Leliana.” Ixchel set down her tea. “You have been a steadfast ally, and a mentor, and a friend. I’d be happy to.”

“And you do love a puzzle, that, I know.” Leliana smirked. “If what is hidden there is as valuable as I think, we’re not going to be the only ones looking for it.”

Ixchel shrugged. “I know you were trained as a bard, Nightingale. I’m not concerned for either of us. May I hear the clues?”

Leliana withdrew the note and read from it; Ixchel guessed that the rest of the letter was too personal to just hand it over to Ixchel. _“‘Always remember that faith sprung from a barren branch. Above all, that strength lies in an open heart. That light has no fear of darkness.’”_

Ixchel blinked at her friend. “That is beautiful.”

“Isn’t it?” Leliana returned the letter to its envelope and looked down at her tea contemplatively. “I do not know if you would have liked her, but she would have liked you, I think,” she said. “She was an old woman, tangled in the norms and customs she used to gain power. It was her Left and Right Hands who could step outside of the Game in our own ways, to enact her will. And even so, she felt constrained… But I think in her heart, she would have liked you.”

“If you and Cassandra like me, then I feel like my moral compass is calibrated properly,” Ixchel demured. “Perhaps I have Justinia to thank for that.”

Leliana allowed herself a short, dark laugh. “Sometimes I wonder, Inquisitor.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel began making arrangements then for her companions to meet her in Halamshiral while she and Leliana set out separately with a small contingent. Cullen was already moving his officers around in anticipation of their arrival, and Josephine had secured their lodging in Halamshiral outside the walls of the palace in suitably grand furnishings. Vivienne sent for Ixchel one afternoon and had her report to her room for a final meeting with the seamstress before they were to depart.

As the seamstress packed up her tools at the end of the session, Vivienne invited Ixchel to sit. “My dear, I know you must have a great deal on your mind right now, but you know as well as I how far the Inquisition’s influence has spread of late.”

Ixchel nodded and accepted a flute of champagne from the First Enchanter. “It is to all our credit,” she agreed.

“Indeed. You must also be aware how desperate the Grand Clerics have become, with no Divine upon the Sunburst Throne. Our opinion will be instrumental in their election of the new Divine.”

Ixchel pursed her lips as bubbles filled her mouth, nearly painful with their sweetness. “Yes,” she murmured. “I thought that might be coming after the ball.”

Vivienne nodded. “I shall not lecture you, then. To sit on the Sunburst Throne, a candidate should have grace, charm, and a will of solid steel. Cassandra may lack the first two, but unless you can think of someone better, she is the strongest choice.”

Ixchel eyed Vivienne carefully over the top of her crystal glass and considered the glittering woman. Vivienne had suspiciously chosen not to wear any particular finery today, and her head was unadorned. She was approaching Ixchel as honestly as she could, the outfit seemed to say: no masks, no pretty distractions.

Ixchel waited.

But it seemed that Vivienne had either lost her nerve, or judged better than to speak her mind, or wanted to find something else out from her. She did not raise herself as a potential candidate, nor did she direct Ixchel to bring it up for her. Instead, she sighed and said, “Perhaps you can speak to her. Cassandra has been absolutely shutting down the idea whenever it is brought up.” Vivienne tapped one finger against the neck of her glass.

“I presume you would back Cassandra because she is more likely than Leliana to restore the Circles and the Templar Order,” Ixchel said. “Do you think I would not support her?”

“I don’t think it’s wrong of me to doubt. You have made it no secret, your opinion of the old ways. But the institutions that have protected Thedas for ages must be rebuilt, and the malcontents utterly crushed,” Vivienne replied with a fierce frown but nary a change in her even voice. “We cannot allow anarchists to threaten the lives of the innocent any longer. After we have restored sanity to the world, there will be time to address voices of dissent.”

Ixchel took another sip of her champagne. “There will never be sanity in the world, Vivienne,” she retorted. When the Enchanter bristled, Ixchel inclined her head. “We live in under the constant threat of another Blight. We now understand the threat of time magic, and Blight magic, at our doorsteps. Halamshiral rebelled and burned, Gaspard would overthrow Celene—when would such a Divine step back and say, ‘now is the time to address the equality of the elves and let cooler heads prevail,’ or ‘now is the time to hear the complaints of Mages within Circles more oppressive than the one at Montsimmard’?” She raised an eyebrow at Vivienne. “Which is exactly why I would be happy to back Cassandra.”

She felt slightly guilty for grinning at the shocked look on Vivienne’s face. She nodded at the Enchanter. “My lady, are you so surprised? _My_ ideal candidate for Divine, if there need be one, is someone who has a faith so strong _because_ it has been tempered with doubt. I would back a woman who has a record of looking past her own experiences and listening to those of others with urgency and attentiveness. I would have someone who, alone, in the midst of all the machinations and voices and demands of the Chantry telling her to ‘slow down,’ to ‘wait for peace,’ to ‘maintain the status quo,’ would push back and ask: ‘Why not now?’ ‘What if _this_ is the key to peace?’ ‘What if the status quo is inherently evil?’”

Ixchel crossed her ankles and leaned back to look out the window. “I have faith in Cassandra,” she said softly. “I have faith that she would _try_. I don’t know if the world would be better, but at least it might be different.”

Vivienne was quiet for a long moment, and Ixchel was careful to avoid looking at her.

“Consider carefully, Inquisitor. Everything we do is a sign from the Maker to those who seek one,” Vivienne said at last. “We shall see how our dear Seeker would rule, if it were to come to pass.”

“Cassandra’s never looked good in hats,” Ixchel admitted.

“On that, at least, we can agree.”

-:-:-:-:-

Solas still hadn’t arrived when Ixchel and Leliana set out with a small contingent for Valence. She enjoyed the trip down to the sea and along its shores. Her hair had grown out quite a bit since the unfortunate incident on the Storm Coast, and more and more she let it hang loose down her back as they traveled. She and Leliana moved inconspicuously, without banners and without pretenses, and they moved swiftly and uninterrupted across the countryside.

Leliana and Ixchel talked often about the events of the Fifth Blight. Ixchel enjoyed hearing about Hal, Morrigan, and Alistair when they were younger—nearly her age—and their misadventures, and as a bard Leliana was a gifted storyteller and singer. When they finally reached the village that was their destination, spirits were high in their group.

Ixchel allowed Leliana to lead the way into the Chantry. She had always felt an intruder in these places.

She did not genuflect when Leliana did upon falling under the gaze of Andraste, lone in the center of the chapel.

“It’s just as I remember,” Leliana breathed.

Ixchel looked around at the statuaries; they were in a slightly different style than she had anticipated for an Orlesian Chantry, however humble it might be. She liked the rough-hewn features and the exaggerated motion of the forms. And Andraste stood tall and proud, but more defiantly than she was usually depicted. Here, she was a rebel slave—not the bride of the Maker—and thus her honor had been earned.

“It’s peaceful here,” she said placidly.

“Leliana?”

Ixchel whirled around at the disturbance, but there was only a delicate Chantry sister stepping out of the shadows.

“Is that you?”

Leliana approached swiftly. “Sister Natalie!” she said breathlessly. “Oh, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Val Royeaux!”

The women embraced. “I’ve been here since Justinia died,” Natalie said. “This place makes me feel like…like she’s still with us. I return here whenever duty allows.”

Over the woman’s shoulder, Leliana fixed Ixchel with an intense look of disdain. Something was not right.

“Inquisitor, this is Natalie,” Leliana said, and her face was once again the picture of warmth and earnestness. “She is a trusted friend.”

The young woman gasped. “Wait. Inquisitor? You… You brought the Inquisitor here?”

She fell to her knees. “My Lady, forgive me for not recognizing you earlier.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable to bow to a Dalish elf, then don’t,” Ixchel said. She shook her head. “No insult, Sister Natalie.”

“The Inquisitor and I were on our way down the coast, and she graciously indulged my foray here,” Leliana said. “Natalie, listen. There is something hidden here. Something Justinia left for me.”

“Oh?” Natalie asked. “Really? What is it?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll find it. I’m curious to see why the Maker brought us all here.” She began to look around, pulling Natalie by the hand. “She gave me instructions, but they were a little cryptic.”

Ixchel and Leliana had discussed a variety of scenarios where they might be separated. This was no large wrench in their plans. Leliana and Natalie loudly speculated at the feet of the statues, while Ixchel wandered slowly and inconspicuously on the opposite side of the Chantry.

“Do they still sing verses from the Benedictions every Friday?” Leliana asked Natalie suddenly. “That Canticle was Justinia’s favorite.”

“Yes, of course. We’d never give up the traditions of our Most Beloved Divine.”

“That is lovely to hear…” Leliana sighed. “I stare up at the Breach sometimes. It’s terrifying but beautiful in its way.”

“It is beautiful,” Natalie replied.

“Have you seen it by sunrise?” Leliana wondered.

“When the sun rises through it, it splits what looks like a thousand suns like a broken mirror.”

Ixchel closed her eyes, swept up in the thought of it—the beauty of the Fade, viewed from the material plane—it was like a broken mirror, or like a gemstone… She wandered down a dark side hall and found herself standing in front of a gilded portrait of a flower growing from a thorny branch.

She stared at it, then began examining its frame, the wall behind it, the footing of the wall and the floor. She found a small crack in the marble and slipped her finger inside and found a wire.

With a gentle pull, the wire whispered free, and she heard something click inside the wall.

“The barren branch,” she murmured to herself.

She passed Leliana, whose eyes strayed behind her from whence she’d come and landed on the painting. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “At the cloister in the Fifth Blight, there was a lot of fear,” Leliana told Natalie sagely. “No one knew what was going to happen, whether we would live or die. And then, one morning, I found a single bloom on a dead rose bush, and I thought, ‘Even in the midst of all this, life finds a way. The Maker hasn’t abandoned us.’”

“That is beautiful, Leliana,” Natalie said.

Ixchel found her way in to the central chamber of the Chantry and walked in a slow circuit around Andraste’s feet. _An open heart,_ she thought to herself. She knew what to look for now, perhaps—the little cracks that seemed like disrepair in a modest Chantry might perhaps be hidden mechanisms.

 _An open heart,_ she thought again, beneath a portrait of a fatal blow.

The mechanism _whirred_ softly.

That left _“light has no fear of darkness.”_

At the feet of Andraste, Ixchel stared into the fire. Soot stained the statue at its back, but still Andraste shone in the light that poured in from the windows all around her.

Ixchel braved the flames to find the next mechanism,.

There was a louder sound behind her, and Ixchel turned to see Andraste aflame, staring at her. Maferath and Hessarian at her feet turned away from the woman’s stoicism in the face of death, and Ixchel approached her. “Leliana,” she murmured.

With the slightest touch, Ixchel pulled open the eaves of the triptych image and revealed Andraste arisen, garbed in white and surrounded by the faithful. The image then raised by some hidden spring and revealed a small room within. A small white box lay on the table inside, but otherwise, it was empty.

Leliana approached swiftly, then slowed to a halt at the sight.

Then, so fast that Ixchel nearly fell over in fright, Leliana whirled around and leaped upon Natalie, knife drawn.

“They never sing the Benedictions here on Fridays, Natalie,” Leliana purred. “Something so simple, and you got it so wrong. I wanted to believe, but you were lying from the start.”

Ixchel approached warily. “Who do you work for?” Ixchel asked ‘Natalie.’

“She’s already told me everything I need to know. The prickleweed burs on your hem, talking about the sun rising through the Breach. It all points to a single place: Morelle, in the Dales. Grand Cleric Victiore’s bastion. She sent you, didn’t she?” Leliana pressed the knife closer to Natalie’s throat. “Victiore was always an opportunist.”

“Is this a play to take the Sunburst Throne?” Ixchel asked. “Who is Victiore? Does she play the Game?”

“She is an experienced cleric. She never agreed with Justinia, but she kept her ideas to herself.” She looked back at Natalie. “I suppose now with Justinia dead, she thought she could make her move. But against me?”

“You and the Seeker are candidates for Divine,” Natalie said with distaste. “An unordained woman should not be Divine, and neither should be one with as much blood on your hands as you, foolish Leliana!” Natalie curled her lip. “The Inquisition has turned Thedas away from the true Chantry. It must be stopped, and you are blind to it!”

“Stop us?” Ixchel asked. “From sealing the Breach? Protecting the Empress? Driving out the Imperium?”

“You mock me,” Natalie spat. “The Inquisition has more enemies than you know, thanks to your proselytizing, knife-ear.”

“Don’t!” Ixchel cried as Leliana’s grift shifted on her knife. The Nightingale’s body tensed, only a breath away from slitting Natalie’s throat.

“Kill me, then! I’m not afraid to die for my beliefs,” Natalie said firmly. “At least I still know what I believe.”

“Release her, Leliana. She is no threat to us.”

“The Grand Cleric—” Leliana began.

“She is one woman,” Ixchel said darkly. “ _We_ are the Inquisition. And the _people_ know who serves them.”

Leliana seemed not even to breathe as she considered Ixchel’s words. “The Inquisitor has spoken mercifully, as always,” she said at last. She withdrew her knife. “Run,” she told Natalie. “Tell your mistress that she has a choice. Change is coming.”

Ixchel nodded, and Natalie stared at them. Ixchel continued to watch her as Leliana turned and went back to the hidden room behind the triptych; something glimmered in Natalie’s eye, and then died. The sister turned and fled.

“Justinia always said compassion was my greatest strength,” Leliana said ruefully over her shoulder as Ixchel approached again. “Doubt is easy. It takes courage to trust.”

“There are few opportunities to practice it, in positions of leadership,” Ixchel offered. “But you have taught your people well, and the Inquisition follows in your footsteps. You have done well—”

“No!” Leliana gasped. She had opened the box as Ixchel spoke, and now she held it up to her face with shaking hands. “This can’t be it. There’s nothing here!”

“A hidden bottom?” Ixchel offered, moving closer.

“No—a message carved into the lid. See? Hold it to the light, just so. It’s very shallow.”

“‘The Left Hand should lay down her burden,’” Ixchel read.

“She…she’s releasing me.”

Leliana set the box down and bowed over the altar there, quiet for a moment. Ixchel put her hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“The Divine has a long reach,” Leliana said, “but it is always her left hand that stretches out. A thousand lies, a thousand deaths. Her commands, but my conscience that bore the consequences.” Leliana hung her head. “I _watched_ Celene decide to burn Halamshiral. She and Justinia made an agreement: Justinia would pacify the Templars if she could, and Celene would put to rest any concerns about an elven rebellion. I _saw_ her contemplate her options, in her mind, and I knew what she had decided…and…”

Leliana shrugged off Ixchel’s hand. “I am sorry, Inquisitor.”

“You said Marjolaine’s games were trifles,” Ixchel said quietly, “and Justinia trifled with the fate of nations, entire peoples. But you have to let it go, Leliana. Her guilt cannot be your guilt. You don’t owe her anything anymore.”

Leliana turned and went to kneel before Andraste, the box still clutched tight in her hands. Ixchel remained standing and watched. It felt like hours passed in silent contemplation before Leliana stirred.

“You are called the Herald of a woman who was burned at the stake for trying to help her people,” Leliana said at last. “It should be held in the highest regard, to stand alone for what is right, as she did. Yet so often we find ourselves obeying the commands of Chantry leaders whose words go in direct opposition to what we know would be right for the people—all of the people. I said that Justinia felt constrained to act. She was not moved to help the elves, yet the countless lives on my hand were _necessary_ and _easy_ orders... Foolish Leliana. The constraints were only ever in her heart.”

She stood and turned to face Ixchel.

“If it were not for you, I would’ve killed Natalie and called it a good thing.” Leliana shook her head. “Thank you for showing me what was right when I couldn’t see it for myself.”

Ixchel shook her head. “You could _see_ it,” she insisted, “but you were afraid that by doing what was right, you were going to be punished. That is not a terrible fault, Leliana. We may yet be.”

Leliana snorted softly and began to walk out of the Chantry. “I will never hear the end of this, from Josie. ‘Niceness before knives, Leliana! Haven’t I always told you!’”

“We will have _plenty_ of need for knives yet,” Ixchel promised. “Now, we go to Halamshiral.”


	59. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/26/20

Ixchel was met outside of Halamshiral by a contingent of peasants. Inside the walls, she could see the glint of Gaspard’s Chevaliers, and Celene’s knights in their tabards, as they prepared themselves uneasily for whatever new uprising this gathering might signal.

Leliana allowed her to draw ahead to meet the group. Up close, she realized that it was a mixed group of Dalish, and city elves, humbly-dressed humans, and casteless dwarves.

 _“An’daran Atish’an, Rogasha’ghi’lan,”_ a voice called. A middle-aged woman adorned with delicate pink vallaslin to Sylaise stepped forward. She held her staff in a tight-fisted grip, and she was dressed in the long striped robes of a Keeper. She held Ixchel’s gaze fiercely.

Ixchel pressed her hand over her heart, maintaining eye contact as she tried to puzzle out where this woman had heard such a name for her. The woman was young for a Keeper, she thought, and she did not recognize her from any of the clans she knew well. She thought it was _highly_ unlikely for Solas to have interacted with a Dalish clan recently outside of what she had herself been present for, yet this Keeper called her as he had named her.

For a moment, her blood ran cold—thinking of any number of meddling forces that may have overheard his naming of her at Suledin Keep, and what their motives might be—but then, it burned. Her fingers tightened over her chest, clutched at her heart, because there, above them all, were the golden spires of Halamshiral. Here, they stood upon the broken dreams of her people, and if those gathered here looked to her now and called her _rogasha’ghi’lan,_ that is what she would be.

She extended her hand outward toward the Keeper. “ _Mar enaste lan em lath’in’iseth,”_ she said, and then she looked purposefully out at the group and translated: “Your grace and welcome warms my heart. How may I serve you here?”

A human man stepped up beside the Keeper. He was dressed in humble clothes, and even at a distance she could smell that he was a tanner. His face was marred by a terrible burn on one side that had caused his skin to sag as her own arm did. He mirrored her salute, with his hand over his heart. “The eyes of the world have been upon you, Inquisitor. We have seen this: a Dalish sister raised to the highest stature in the human Chantry, and with her she raises others—elves of all kinds, dwarves, humans, regardless of origin, regardless of any ignobility assumed by their birthright.”

Ixchel nodded.

“The people of Halamshiral are proud, but we have been made humble by the actions of those who gather in the Winter Palace,” the man continued. “We have little to give you in welcome, and there is little that can be given to thank you for your efforts—in calming the Mages and the Templars, in leading the Lions to peace, or facing the tear in the sky.”

A dwarf stepped forward next. “Not everyone in Thedas can join the Inquisition,” he grunted. “But the wounded sky is all of ours, regardless. Whatever beliefs we may hold, there is no denying the threats we face. You have made it clear we face them together. We gathered here to insist that all should see you, as we have seen you. ”

He nodded at her, then let the Keeper speak again.

“You walk the _Vir Atish’an,_ the Way of Peace, and you forge the way with fire and steel in the name of all peoples.” The Keeper turned, and the crowd parted with her to reveal a group of city and Dalish elves approaching from behind. They led a creature between them that was more beautiful than any Ixchel had ever seen with her own eyes.

“May your honor draw the eyes and ears of all nations,” the Keeper said.

The white hart was already outfitted with a custom saddle, blanket, and harness; the textiles were clearly a Dalish weave, while the saddle was an Orlesian style, and the metalwork she could tell by its square and knotting patterns was Dwarven. The beast’s mighty horns were pale yellow but painted with an opalescent coating to catch the light and had been strung with ribbons just as sometimes the Dalish did with their halla during festivals.

Ixchel’s eyes watered as she stepped forward to greet the mighty hart. It seemed gentle in temperment and nosed her palm calmly as she reached out to stroke it.

“May the consciences of the cruel reawaken at the sight of you,” said the man.

“May you be the Herald of a new age for Thedas,” the dwarf said.

“And may you always remember that your pride is the pride of the people,” said the city elf.

 _“Emmasalin var suledin evanura,”_ Ixchel replied.

-:-:-:-:-

As soon as Ixchel led the hart back to Leliana, her mind was racing with worry.

“Celene is going to think I’m trying to steal her crown,” she whispered.

“Hush,” Leliana murmured. “Do not let them hear your doubts. We will discuss this with the Ambassador.”

Their traveling party continued into the city, while the gathered crowd slowly dispersed back into the remains of the alienage and into the forest on the outskirts of Halamshiral. One of Leliana’s people led her entourage to their lodging, and Ixchel personally escorted the hart to the stables there. She was surprised to find Cullen there.

He was dressed in his shirtsleeves and no armor, and she realized why a moment later: his armor was piled on a cot at the back of the stable.

He looked quite startled to see her there, and he jumped to his feet immediately. “Lady Ixchel! You’ve arrived! W-wonderful to see you. Ah, I mean, it’s been a while, and I heard you had encountered some…difficulties…but you look great!”

Ixchel chuckled. “At ease, Commander,” she teased. “I’m about to get quite a tongue-lashing from my advisers, so maybe hold off on telling me how good I look until after I’ve been beaten within an inch of my life?”

He stared at her. “ _What_ — Maker’s breath, Ixchel, what are you talking about?”

She patted the gilded hart on the rump and closed the stall door behind it. “There was a scene at the gates,” she said reluctantly. “In full view of Gaspard and Celene’s forces, a group of Dalish and city elves, dwarves, humans—all working and serving class folk—gave me this lad.”

Cullen glanced at the hart. “He’s beautiful, but he’s no All-Breed.”

Ixchel shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. “They may have also made a speech about how I lead them and hold all their hopes and dreams on my shoulders, hence the mighty steed to carry me and their aspirations for a better future.”

“Oh.” Cullen paused. “That’s lovely.”

Ixchel cleared her throat. “Now Celene and Gaspard will think I want to be _Empress_ ,” she said slowly, “and Briala will think I want to liberate the Dales, and I truly can’t tell if this is a genuine move or a _very_ clever ploy.”

“ _Oh_ .” 

Ixchel looked back at Cullen and found growing panic in his eyes. “I understand why you’re worried about Josephine,” he said. “Er…are you trying to hide?”

“No.” She let her shoulders fall and nodded at the hart. “In the case that it is a genuine offer, it would send me a very strong message were anyone to sneak in here and let harm come to it. I was going to see who was on duty tonight.” She offered Cullen a small smile. “I don’t think I need worry, though.”

He straightened up. “No, absolutely not.”

“Might I ask _why_ you are posted here, Commander? Were there no rooms available?”

A light blush rose to his cheeks, and he ran a hand through his hair—then across his face, and he took a step closer. “I…have had difficulty, being indoors for very long, after what happened at the Circle,” he admitted. “It has been more difficult since…well…”

She laid a hand on his forearm. She understood.

“How _are_ you holding up?” she asked in a lower voice. “You seem to have been writing your letters in fairer moods of late.”

“Have I?” He brightened up a little. “I have been doing my best to keep it that way. I might once have been proud of how much I have thrown myself into the work, but… I don’t need to tell you that I might be trying to avoid sleep.”

“Right. I know it well enough.”

Cullen nodded. “I have heard some of your efforts,” he admitted. His gaze fell to the hand that still remained on his arm, and she had a sudden, very intense internal debate about what the _fuck_ she was doing. Of course he had heard of her encounters with Fenris. She had done nothing to be discrete. Before she could remove her hand herself, he had taken a step back. Ixchel cursed herself and tucked her hands behind her back, admonished.

“Being in the field has been helpful,” he said, and she was glad, at least, that his voice was even and unbothered. Small comforts.

“I do apologize for dragging you into this nest of snakes,” she said and bowed her head. “I should go face my fate, I suppose. But it’s good to see you, Cullen. I’m glad you’re holding up.”

“Thank you, Ixchel,” he said. “It…means a lot to hear that. If you need a hasty retreat, I can give some cover fire. Just call for me.”

She laughed a little weakly. “Thanks, Cullen.”

He turned to consider the hart, who had found the bag of feed hooked beside its stall and was now nose-deep in its dinner. “Have you named him?” he asked.

“I’d like him to survive the night before I do anything so presumptuous,” she said.

“I’ll do my best to ensure that, then,” he promised. “Good luck, Inquisitor.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel had knocked on Leliana’s door and summoned her, and Leliana had fetched Cassandra, and now the three women stood in front of Josephine’s door in trepidatious silence.

Ixchel took a deep breath and raised her hand for the third time. She had lost her nerve on the first two attempts.

Her knuckles had barely touched the wood before the door was flung open. Josephine’s hair was mussed, and her jaw was set furiously. “There you are!” she cried. “What took you so long? We have a crisis!”

They hurried in and closed the door behind them. Ixchel looked around the small sitting room and found crumpled papers _everywhere_. Clearly, Josephine had been drafting many a frantic letter in the hour or so since Ixchel had arrived in Halamshiral. Ixchel bit her tongue and tracked Josephine’s movements with her eyes; the Ambassador crossed the room again and closed the windows, then drew the curtains tight before rounding on her audience, hands on her hips.

She took a deep breath. “To be fair,” she said delicately, “you did warn me, Lady Ixchel.”

“And Vivienne,” Ixchel added.

“Yes,” Leliana said with a small smile, “if you have been trying to hide your motivations and ideals, you have done a very poor job of it.”

“ _What_ is this about?” Cassandra asked.

Ixchel raised her eyebrows at Josephine and went to sit in a chair, arms crossed over her chest.

“There was an incident outside the city gates that has now convinced the Empress, the Usurper, and the Council of Heralds that the Inquisitor seeks the throne of Orlais for herself!” Josephine raised a hand to her temples and groaned. “Oh, Ixchel. And the Chantry leaders will see you styling yourself as a second-coming of Andraste herself!”

“Shartan, more like,” Ixchel replied with a facetious smile. She let it drop quickly. “Let me assure you, I view this as much of an embarrassing problem as you do. Flattering, but dangerous and problematic, too.”

“You…you…” Josephine gestured at her helplessly. “But you do believe these things, what they say about you! It’s what you want!”

“Yeah,” Ixchel said. “And I also realize how it’s interpreted by Celene, Gaspard, and Briala, and the Council of Heralds, and our noble allies.” She returned Josephine’s helpless gesture. “I don’t want a kingdom. I don’t want a crown. I want _the crowns_ to stop burning alienages, and to stop hunting children for their ears, and to stop giving their people the tiniest scraps while whole feasts go to waste in gilded halls. Concepts _so foreign_ to these people we’re dealing with that I bet you don’t even know where to start trying to convince them that I’m being genuine, right?”

Josephine threw up her hands and turned, shaking her head.

“These are honorable aspirations for a society,” Cassandra said. “Of course the Orlesians would never believe you—or allow you space in their society to remind them of such aspirations.”

“In many ways, you have now burst onto the scene as Gaspard had,” Leliana mused. “Yet he at least knew he had a receptive audience among the powerful.”

“I’m here to prevent an assassination, and frustrate Corypheus, and, I would like, to prevent the Halamshiral alienage from being burned a second time.” Ixchel sighed and covered her face.

“Your message is not for the nobility in the first place!” Josephine hissed. “It is impossible to package it for them in any way.”

Leliana clicked her tongue behind her teeth. “How has anything truly good ever been packaged to the nobility, Josephine? If not in the livery of a Chantry, then under the guise of artistic or scholarly patronage.” She took her chin between her thumb and forefinger thoughtfully and nodded. “Yes. It is imperative that we appear to be the inevitable, new world order. It must be _en vogue_ to be seen as benefactors of the poor, and to adopt the language of _liberté, égalité, fraternité.”_

“As it _should_ be!” Cassandra muttered.

Josephine sighed. “And _how_ do you propose to do that? We cannot show our military might without seeming like usurpers.”

There was a knock on the door.

“We have fashion on our side,” Leliana said. “It is Vivienne. I heard her ring catch in her sleeve.”

Cassandra opened the door to allow Vivienne—for it was Vivienne—inside. She saw Ixchel’s contrite face and the Enchantress’s stormy expression eased. “I must remember that you are above all an _earnest_ girl,” she mused.

“Please do,” Ixchel agreed.

“So you still do not want to be crowned Queen of the Dales?”

Ixchel made a face. “Please, Vivienne.”

Leliana bowed her head to Vivienne. “You have come just in time, Madame de Fer. You are the unparalleled expert in convincing the nobility they must drink vinegar and proclaim it to taste like honey.”

“Indeed.” Vivienne smoothed her dress out along her thighs and tilted her head. “You speak then of convincing the court that we seek to be the Empress’s new clothes—not the new Empress. Well then, indeed, appearances are more important than ever.” She looked pointedly at Cassandra. “It is a good thing that I commissioned a piece for you just in case, dear Seeker. You must attend.”

Cassandra’s jaw dropped. “No!”

Ixchel gave her an apologetic pout. “I’m afraid she’s right, Lady Pentaghast,” she said. “As a possible future Divine, you _must_ make an appearance, and make it a beautiful and imposing one, and make it clear that you stand with us.”

Leliana put her hand on Cassandra’s shoulder comfortingly. “You are already a well-respected leader, and the Right Hand of the Divine,” she reminded the Seeker.

“And you will not only be respected, my dear,” Vivienne purred. “You must be awed, feared, aspired to. As must we all, it seems.” She raised her head and fixed her piercing gaze on Ixchel. “You command an army of the faithful, outfitted by the coin of the nobility, and denounce those who would use power to be cruel for their own gain. You will be a woman who the common folk aspire to be, and to whom the nobility bow.”

Vivienne clasped her hands behind her back and squared her shoulders. “Stories of the Inquisition have already spread ‘cross Thedas. Men and women in every corner of society, in _every_ society, have wondered if you are the woman they say you are. They will question what they’ve heard, but they will believe what they see. They must see someone greater than legends. Above anything so petty as the mortal squabbles for a throne.”

“If those are your standards for the Inquisitor, what are your standards for the Divine?” Josephine asked with a rueful glance at Cassandra.

“Andraste and the Maker cast very large shadows,” Vivienne allowed primly. “The Divine absolutely must set the example for all Thedas. She must seem to be the embodiment of the Maker to the faithful.” She paused. “I believe she needs the authority of the Maker and the charisma of Andraste. It will be no small task to fill that vacant throne.”

Ixchel glanced at Cassandra as well. She reached out for her friend, who crossed the room and took her hand firmly.

“I’m not asking you to perform, Cassandra,” Ixchel insisted. “I’m asking you to be you. To share what you believe. To be as beautiful and authoritative and charismatic as you always have been. But in a dress, probably.”

“And what _is_ it that you believe, Cassandra?” Josephine asked. She reached for her pen and her tablet. “We must make sure our messaging is consistent.”

Cassandra looked down at Ixchel. The elf, in turn, gave her an encouraging smile.

“The Chantry should provide faith. _Hope_ ,” Cassandra said, to her. “But instead, it cannot veer from its course, even in the face of certain death. Am I not the same woman who declared the Inquisition, against the Chantry’s wishes? In all my years as a Seeker, I did what I was told. My faith demanded it. But now my faith demands something else: that I see with better eyes. Some think that the events that have led us here are extraordinary. I have reflected on it deeply, and I think that this was a long time coming. The Divine knew this.”

Cassandra’s hand in Ixchel’s shook. But she looked at Leliana and Vivienne in turn and squared her shoulders, buoyed by her conviction. “For too long, the Divine has been the only eye. You know Varric is Andrastian? For all he blasphemes, he has a virtuous heart. But he would never step foot in a Chantry. The Chantry should be the first place to which the virtuous turn. It needs to change for that to be true.”

Cassandra released Ixchel’s hand and took a step into the center of the room.

“I served Divine Justinia with all my heart. But she bartered the lives of the elves of Orlais for a political bargain to seek power over the Templars. And now we have learned that the Exalted March began because of suspicions that no elf would ever truly believe in the Maker. We must be compassionate to all peoples of Thedas, human or no. We’re off to a good start,” she said, with a bit of a smile on her severe face. “We have found ourselves a leader who I _know_ walks in Andraste’s Light, and that should be what matters—whatever it is she personally believes.”

Josephine set down her pen slowly, lips parted in awe. Leliana’s eyes shone as she looked upon Cassandra, and Ixchel thought she saw a small twinge of sadness in the midst of her admiration. And Vivienne breathed deeply and calmly in the wake of Cassandra’s pronouncement, and she nodded slowly, and Ixchel felt a new flicker of hope light within her own breast. For her own part, Ixchel was nearly overcome with emotion. For all the doubt she had been privy to on this journey with Cassandra, she was ever the stalwart ally and friend--and the honorable woman she had loved so dearly in her past life.

If Cassandra had not been Divine, she would never have trusted the world to last a moment without the Inquisition. But she had laid down her arms and bid goodbye to her beloved organization, because she had trusted Cassandra's faith, and hope, and determination to seek a better future for the world.

Before Fen'Harel had ruined it.

“We are here as patrons, then,” Vivienne told Josephine. “We are stewards and patrons, trend-setters, and our highest priority of the night is ensuring that every beating heart in that palace beats in time with our step.”

“ _And_ saving the Empress,” Josephine suggested.

“Secondary, at best.” Vivienne smirked. “Celene has had plenty of chances to demonstrate what kind of leader she is already.”

Vivienne turned to Ixchel and Cassandra. “Ladies, you must report to my boudoir straightaway after breakfast to prepare for tomorrow’s ball. There can be no further distractions. Especially you, Lady Pentaghast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just like having Ixchel and Cassandra make speeches to make *myself* weep like, once a week, about having hope for the future and all that q__q and you're all just along for the ride I suppose! 
> 
> *waves Protect Cassandra Pentaghast 2k20 flag*
> 
> “An’daran Atish’an, Rogasha’ghi’lan,” - The place you go is a safe place (welcome), brave guide/teacher  
> “Mar enaste lan em lath’in’iseth,” - your grace warms my heart  
> Vir Atish’an - Way of Peace, Sylaise’s doctrine  
> “Emmasalin var suledin evanura,” - (uncertain) May this help us endure our struggle / May our honor endure where I go


	60. The Long Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> party party partyyyy  
> taking bets on how long Ixchel's composure lasts
> 
> “Th’ea?” Solas asked over her shoulder. - How are you? (informal contraction)  
> Her ears twitched. “G’t’lom,” she muttered. - everything is bad (informal contraction)  
> He chuckled. “Ane ir’ina’lan’ehn.” - You are gorgeous/very beautiful  
> “Beauty is pain,” Ixchel replied darkly. “So I’m told.”  
> -  
> On dhea’lam - good evening
> 
> 11/26/20

Ixchel sat in Vivienne’s boudoir for nearly half the day, fawned over by hairdressers and tailors and make up artist. Her other companions wandered in and out throughout the day with their own appointments.

Cullen was first, and the most fidgety; the Commander was allowed to keep his mantle, and he wore a billowing white shirt beneath, which was then draped with the same red-and-gold tabards that usually hung from his breastplate. He was not allowed the safety blanket of his armor, but this would hopefully be familiar enough.

Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne had matching burgundy dresses with high necks, tight bodices, and slits up the thigh; Vivienne wore stunning white leggings beneath, lined with jewels, and Leliana wrapped her long legs in criss-crossing black ribbons. Ixchel could imagine there were seventy-five assorted knives hidden somewhere beneath them, each carefully positioned for easy access. Josephine bypassed the leggings and allowed her beautiful, tanned skin to speak for itself. Each woman wore a golden sash affixed with a horn brooch carved in the shape of the Inquisition’s brand. Josephine did her hair up with gold ribbons, Vivienne had produced a stunning headpiece, and Leliana wore a headscarf embroidered subtly with birds.

Bull was fitted with a fine jacket of red with burnished leather harness. His tent-like, brightly colored trousers were swapped for white. He had also been given horn balm, which he was loudly grateful for. Varric’s appointment was at the same time, and his normal open-chested red silk outfit was only slightly modified before he was given the word of approval. Dorian had conjured up a flowing set of robes, also in varying shades of red, with a sparkling silverite mail underneath. He swung by only to get in the way of Ixchel’s preparations, and to offer her wine.

When Solas turned up for his appointment, Ixchel was in the middle of getting her eye makeup applied. The artist was quick to dig her fingers into Ixchel’s cheek as soon as she noticed the twitch of her ear in Solas’s direction. “Ah-ah!” the Orlesian hissed. “Eyes shut.”

Ixchel’s fingers tightened in her lap, and then she abruptly relaxed, remembering that they had just been painted—how many hours before? Had they dried yet?

“Ah-ah!”

“Sorry,” Ixchel muttered.

She heard Solas chuckle somewhere behind her, and she chewed the inside of her cheek in frustration to bite back all the things she wanted to say. She had not seen him since he had left her upon the Exalted Plains, and to say that she was anxious was like saying a High Dragon was related to a gurgut. _Of course they were,_ but there was a massive understatement of scale there, at the very least. Her heart pounded in her throat and in the vein in her neck, and she desperately wanted to blurt out an apology for her dalliance with Fenris. She wanted to apologize for seemingly drawing more worshipers to her feet with her title. She wanted to ask him for advice about the night. She wanted to warn him about the massive racist backlash she was dreading after the situation at the city gate. She wanted to inquire about his travels.

And she also wanted to see what he was being forced into, because she wanted to know who was to blame for that damn hat last time.

 _“Th’ea?”_ Solas asked over her shoulder.

Her ears twitched. _“G’t’lom,”_ she muttered.

He chuckled. _“Ane ir’ina’lan’ehn.”_

“Beauty is pain,” Ixchel replied darkly. “So I’m told.”

“Eyes closed ‘til the liner dries,” her artist said. “Now hush. Let me do your lips.”

Solas laughed again and left the room with a rustle of clothes.

At least, Ixchel hoped, he seemed to be in good humor.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel was finally allowed to stand. Her knees complained after sitting for so long, and the small of her back ached from sitting so rigidly while the makeup and hair stylists worked on her. Vivienne shepherded her over to the wardrobe to begin layering on her outfit.

Ixchel had been given black leggings with crimson along the inseam, much like the style Vivienne herself sometimes wore, as well as white foot wrappings in the Dalish style. She had been allowed a long green tunic while she was having her hair and makeup done, but now Vivienne had her remove it. She was then draped in a thin white shirt with low shoulders and flowing sleeves, and then she stepped in to her armor:

First, the leather. Between her elbow and shoulder she fastened slats of leather, partly as padding for the next layers to be added, but partly for added protection should blades come her way. Around her belly was a thick leather corset molded to her proportions—thin enough to hide beneath more clothing, but again, another measure of protection against a stab in the gut or side. At her hips hung leather pads similar to those on her arms; the leather was done all in white, to help it blend in with the next layers.

What followed was the true armor of the night. A cropped cuirass of gleaming pyrophite had been cleverly wrapped in soft, opaque fabric the color of snow; Ixchel recognized it as one of the finest and most expensive Dalish exports—said to have been passed down from the glory days of their kingdom, for it was the fabric of the Dalish banners that sometimes still fluttered in remote holdouts and ruins. It was thick and cool, and folded as it was around the cuirass, it looked almost like it formed the bodice of a dress. The long strips of fabric had been bolted down to the lower lip of the cuirass, but they were allowed to hang long and flutter about her legs like a Dalish banner, and were in fact tipped with shards of pyrophite just as a banner might be. Between the ruched folds of the fabric, the cuirass caught the light; it reminded her of the cracks she had seen in Imshael's form, a hint of something gilded hidden beneath the surface.

Atop that, Vivienne secured an interlocking net of metal bars so thin they could have been threads; it settled over Ixchel’s shoulders, hooked on to the front and back of the cuirass, and did not shift or make a sound once secured. To the metallic netting, Vivienne secured sleeves of dangling dragon bone carved carefully into the shape of leaves, much in the same fashion as the mail Ixchel had fashioned for her fine, heavy armor. These, however, had been sewn down to a layer of velvet so they would not clink with every movement. The sleeves hung down to her elbows, thus ensuring that most of her torso was protected.

To hooks hidden at the bottom of the cuirass, Vivienne fastened tassets of layered dragon bone shards, which hung down almost to her knees to protect her outer thighs. These had also been sewn down to a slip of velvet to quiet them, but when Ixchel gave a test spin, they spread out to catch the light like skirts of flame beneath the fluttering white strips of her top.

Vivienne then wrapped her midsection with a slash of deep red fabric, which she expertly knotted in the back and let trail behind her like a train; the symbol of the Inquisition was embroidered in stark white on the trailing fabric. Vivienne belted it all tightly with a series of knotted gold cords. She indicated to Ixchel which loops could be used to secure a sword, should she…obtain one, somehow, throughout the course of the night. The billowing white sleeves of her blouse were tucked into red leather braces, and attached to those were interlocking pieces of ivory that had been carved into claws. They affixed to her fingers with hidden rings, but her palms were left bare.

The Anchor flared as she was, at last, allowed to look at herself in the mirror.

She tilted her head, and the autumnal queen reflected back at her tilted as well. Her eyelids had been darkened and glittering golden dust spread across them. White eyeliner framed them and curved upward under her browbone like knives on either side of her face. Dirthamen’s vallaslin shone gold against her dark skin, accented by a thin veneer of the same glitter that was on her eyelids. Her cheekbones had been accented with shadows; her lips had been darkened with a rouge that was so deep it was almost black, and then a touch of gold had been applied upon the bow of her mouth and the swell of her bottom lip. Her scars had not been hidden, but they cut sharp lines into her face that drew the eye almost upward, back to her fierce amber eyes.

Her hair had been plaited back into a very loose braid, and that had been worked into a net of red ribbon. The Ardent Blossom crowned her head like flames, but woven into her braid were crimson and black embrium blossoms; they made the transition from her hair to her cape seem as though she brought fire in her wake.

The rest of her was gold, gilded, like an ancient Elvhen mosaic animated for a vengeful purpose.

“Inquisitor Ixchel Dragon-Slayer, Champion of the People, Defender of Thedas,” Vivienne pronounced. “Shepherd of the Order of Templars, Mediator of Mages, Herald of Andraste!”

Ixchel stood straighter and turned her chin to the First Enchanter. “That is what we told them to say, at least,” she agreed. “Who knows what fiction they’ll spin instead?”

Vivienne smoothed back her own short-cropped hair and put her headpiece in place. “Who knows?” she agreed. “But we must pull a victory from anything.”

-:-:-:-:-

Thus painted, shrouded, and crowned, Ixchel sought out her gathered companions. They had taken over the inner courtyard of the chateau Josephine had secured for them, and her friends and advisers milled about restlessly while they waited for the signal to leave.

Josephine and Leliana were coaching Cassandra in a corner; the Seeker had certainly been dressed by Vivienne, as evidenced by the white, sleeveless high-necked jacket that made up the core of her ensemble. The jacket had been subtly embroidered with the Inquisition’s standard, still in white, so that it was only visible when the light caught the pearls sewn into the seams. Over the jacket, Cassandra had been allowed a loose, cropped cape of deep Chantry crimson that she hugged tightly around her, discomfort evident. Ixchel was surprised that Vivienne had given Cassandra soft white breeches rather than a skirt, but there was a circlet in her hair—she was a princess, after all—and Vivienne supposed there had been a trade off: pretend to be a princess and you get the pants!

All eyes turned to her as she entered.

She tried not to smile too giddily, tried not to even look at them as she strode into the courtyard. She passed by the fountain at the center and approached her advisers, and she heard Varric murmur:

“Oh, _Sunshine_.”

She looked up against her better instincts and found herself paralyzed under the weight of their gazes.

Cullen had his hand pressed to his chest, as though to ensure that his heart remained firmly behind his ribs. Josephine had clasped her hands tightly in front of her mouth to hide her beaming smile, but Leliana made no effort to hide her satisfied smirk. Cassandra’s face was red, but the barest hint of a smile played on her lips as she lowered her defensive shawl ever-so-slightly.

Bull’s eye was scrutinizing, and his expression thoughtful as he no doubt tried to identify the symbolism Vivienne had crafted into her appearance for the evening. In front of Bull, Dorian had not swooned as Ixchel had expected, but rather stood stock still, staring at her intently. When her eyes landed upon him, he drew his chin up ever so slightly and took a deep, steadying breath. Then, there was Varric, who had drawn her eye; his look was so full of awe and inspired adoration, it made her heart ache. She was reminded of his abashed admission that he really did think she might have been sent by Andraste, that she really was the Hero of Thedas.

At last, her gaze fell upon Solas.

He stood with Varric and Cole (Cole, dressed in his usual armor, was looking at her like one might look at a newborn foal) slightly off to the side. Unlike most of her companions, who were dressed primarily in red, he had somehow been outfitted mostly in white—and his outfit, though fine, seemed far more understated than any of theirs. Ixchel realized with some displeasure that he had likely chosen such a differentiation in order to increase the chances of being mistaken as her servant. He wore a flowing white shirt whose billowing sleeves clasped at the wrist with golden cuffs, and he had a high-necked gorget of similar color and make that she recognized _surely_ as a piece of ancient Arlathani armor. Atop it, he wore a long, sleeveless surcoat of pale amber fabric, belted at the waist with a red sash. His legs were wrapped tightly in fine black cloth, and he, too, had foregone shoes in lieu of foot wrappings. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders square, and his head held high as he drank in the sight of her, and when their eyes met, she found that his contained an intensity she had been afraid to see.

Fen’Harel, it seemed, was her guest tonight.

She swallowed and nodded at everyone, then continued on to meet with her advisers; Vivienne trailed behind to deal with her companions.

“You look stunning, Inquisitor,” Leliana said. Josephine and Cassandra made noises of agreement. “Yet I can tell you are nervous.”

Ixchel curled her toes. “That obvious?” she asked sarcastically. “I know I look like a religious figure. It’s scary.”

“I am inclined to agree,” said Josephine. “The political situation in Halamshiral hangs by a thread—yet I am more concerned about how you will fare by the end of the night.”

“Especially in white,” Cassandra said under her breath.

Ixchel chuckled. “But we’ve decided red is the accent color. What does it matter if I gain more accent?” She grinned.

“Perhaps it is a stroke of luck that our invitation comes from Lady Morrigan,” Josephine posited to Leliana with a sudden snap of her fingers. “She is a mystic and occultist. Celene supposedly communicates to the dead through her, and learns ancient secrets, and scries the future. It can be no mistake that she sought out the so-called Herald of Andraste as her guest.”

“But she holds little sway,” Ixchel warned. “I doubt she can offer much more than she already has.”

Leliana nodded. “I agree. But Josephine is right. We should not overlook the auspice of our invitation. You are familiar with Avvar and Chasind augurs, are you not, Inquisitor?”

“Somewhat,” Ixchel demurred.

“Perhaps you can further ingratiate yourself with the witch. If you are seen with her often enough, that will set the court abuzz,” Leliana suggested.

Ixchel nodded. “I certainly can ask her about Hal for days,” she agreed. She glanced behind her. “Do all the mages have their divining rods?”

Leliana nodded. “Potent and quickly accessed.”

“And the weapons have been smuggled in ahead of us?” Ixchel flexed the Anchor in her hand, and in doing so caused her decorative talons to extend menacingly. She could get used to them. “Have we double-checked the well-being of our people on the inside?”

Josephine and Leliana nodded. “They are some of our best. They were not unmasked before they spirited themselves away to safety.”

“Are you prepared to address your entourage, Lady Ixchel?” Josephine asked.

Ixchel’s breath caught in her throat. Cassandra lay a steadying hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Yeah,” Ixchel said faintly. “Here we go.”

She turned, flanked by Josephine and Leliana, and Cassandra went to rejoin the main group.

 _“On dhea’lam,_ everyone,” Ixchel said. Once again, all eyes in the courtyard flocked to her radiant figure, and she did her best not to shiver. She clenched her fists at her sides. “Tonight we will thwart Corypheus once again. We will prevent the hostile takeover of Orlais by a foreign power, and in so doing, make our first true step to avoid the Blighted future he seeks to bring about.”

As she spoke, the tension in her neck eased, and she found it easier to stand tall—relatively speaking—between her advisers.

“I know it seems like a party, and I certainly hope you enjoy yourselves. But remember that we are viewed as a hostile foreign power here—and I view all parties involved as hostile foreign powers, as well. You are spies and nobles and the sharpest minds of Thedas, before me,” she said, “so I’m not going to warn you that we cannot trust anyone in those gilded rooms to be our friends. I’m told that Leliana passed on my words from yesterday, but I’d like to reiterate something. I’m not trying to get another title out of this, or a crown. I want _the crowns_ to stop abusing their power, and I want Chevaliers to be held accountable for their abuses like any common murderers, and I want the nobles to view themselves as patrons and stewards of their empires rather than revelers at the top of a tower built on slaves by any other name. There's no point in stopping Corypheus when the powers that be would ensure the same future, with a different color scheme.”

Ixchel uncurled her fists.

“If you see servants being harassed, find a sly way to defend or distract,” she ordered. “If you notice servants going missing, you tell me. If you hear ‘knife-ear’ or ‘rabbit’ ask the speaker to _please explain what that means_ in such utterly painful and pea-brained detail that they realize how _fucking awful t_ hey are. Please don’t start any fights that I’m not a part of,” she added with a wry smile, “and I will try and promise not to burn the whole place down and dance upon its bones like a funeral pyre to my ancestors.”

There was a chuckle through the crowd. Josephine cleared her throat. “Alright, well. Remember to collect any caprice coins or halla statues you can find—surreptitiously. Any further questions?” She gave them all as solemn a look as any military commander heading into a fraught battle. “Good. Places, everyone!”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel was given a heavy crimson brocade cloak that Vivienne very purposefully arranged across the hart’s back once Ixchel had mounted. Ixchel then rode, with her head crowned just as her hart’s was, at the forefront of their delegation. There had been a path set for her procession from her lodgings to the Palace, but she and Leliana had reworked it at the last minute. Now, her route took them through areas of the upper quarter that were within view of the walls of the slums. No upper-class human would commit such a faux pas as to gawk at her from their windows—at least, not in a way they might be noticed—but the walls of the slums were decorated with onlookers who had scaled up to get a better look. She looked to them, and she smiled.

Her neck and shoulders began to ache fairly quickly form trying to keep her head held so high and proud as she rode, but when they finally reached the walls of the Winter Palace, Ixchel decided it was all worth it. For all the uncertainty and doubt she had felt about how she might be received—it was _good_ to strike such fear and awe into these _frilly handkerchiefs_ who once had treated her like a little fetish doll on her first visit, as a much more naive and trusting girl.

_Rabbitrabbitrabbit._

She pulled up her hart and cast a bright, heartfelt smile at the gates of the Winter Palace, at the masks that glittered and leered at her from behind them, and she dismounted.

She stood with her back to her entourage and watched the gates to see who had gathered to greet her. From the looks of it, Gaspard alone.

Ixchel did not turn to see if her people had gathered and were prepared. She waited for the _feeling_ of Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine gathered behind her, and then she processed forward.

Her soldiers opened the gates, and Ixchel returned to the Winter Palace.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor,” Gaspard said warmly as he approached her. He was a man of formidable stature, even for a Chevalier, and he clearly had not gotten into the drink quite yet; for now, he was tolerable company. She took a step toward him, away from her entourage.

“Bringing the rebel Mages into the ranks of your army was a brilliant move—and the political acumen you showed by leashing the Templars to your flag are a testament to your rising star.” Held out an hand illustratively. “You have seen the strength of my army first hand on the Exalted Plains. Imagine, then, what the Inquisition might be able to accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais!”

Ixchel turned her shoulders a little, extended her chin. “I did, in fact, witness your army’s retreat from the Venatori terrorists and their Arcane Horrors upon the Exalted Plains.” She paused to let her words hang heavy in the air. “I trust that my personal efforts to clear your battlements have enabled you to re-establish a more mighty presence on the front there?”

Gaspard’s smile was tight beneath his mask. “Ah, but we are here tonight to put an end to fronts and battlements, are we not, Inquisitor?”

“Indeed,” Ixchel said. “It would be a pity to have more blood shed, whether at home or abroad.”

Gaspard seemed to have been waiting for her to mention Celene’s effort to crush the elven rebellion—perhaps he had even practiced his response. “Indeed. The Empire sways with blood loss from self-inflicted wounds. _Our people_ need a steady hand to lead them forward.”

“And a shining banner to inspire them,” she mused.

Gaspard bowed his head. “Keep the image firmly in mind, my lady. We may see it materialize by the end of the evening.”

Ixchel stepped forward, and as she did, the strips of white fabric that made up her skirt jingled with the pretty sound of pyrophite. She had realized soon after dressing that she would likely be spending lots of time standing very still, in order to make the sound of her movement more meaningful. Now, it signaled to Gaspard that his monopoly on her time was done.

“I thank you for greeting me at the gate, Grand Duke,” she said. “It is a kindness I did not expect, as a humble guest to your empire.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he said, bowing. “You have done my armies a great favor, and they would mutiny if I did not attempt to repay their gratitude in even this, the slightest of ways.”

Ixchel had spied Morrigan waiting for her beyond the fountain, forbidden by rank from interrupting Gaspard. Ixchel was not so confined, and she gave Morrigan a beaming smile as she approached. She was dressed in a wine-red velvet dress—a distinctly different shade of red than the Inquisition wore—of conservative cut, adorned with thin metal feathers of gold. She had altered the waist of the dress to be a more dropped-hem, as per Ixchel’s recommendation in her letter. _The fashions of the court are fickle, and I suspect that Celene will be favoring a more svelte silhouette by the time of the ball,_ Ixchel had hinted. She was glad Morrigan had listened. She looked wonderful in wine and forest.

“Lady Morrigan,” she said warmly.

“Welcome, Herald of Andraste,” Morrigan proclaimed. “Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself and launched straight to the highest echelons of the imperial court.” She clasped her hands before her. “Her Radiance extends her gratitude for your efforts to seal the tear in the sky, for the sake of all the Maker’s children.”

“I thank her for the most gracious welcome,” Ixchel replied, as was expected of her.

Before either Morrigan or Ixchel could respond, they heard a voice in the gardens loudly ask, “Is that the Inquisitor?”

“An elf _savage?_ Maker forbid!”

Ixchel’s smile never faltered. "I do believe I must introduce myself to the court, my lady. I shall meet you inside at the bell.”

Morrigan dipped slightly. “Do let them know what an honor it is to find themselves in the presence of Andraste’s own,” she murmured.

“They will be telling stories of this into the next age,” Ixchel said, perhaps with more chagrin than she intended. She gave Morrigan a shallow curtsy and departed.

* * *

rough sketch/wip of Ixchel's outfit 


	61. Kill 'em with Kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/27/20

Ixchel turned to find her party spread out already among the guests in the gardens, fraternizing. Ixchel went to join them.

As she walked, her bare feet brushed aside something that rolled heavily in the grass. She bent carefully and found a fine ring stamped with the Montbelliard’s crest—if she remembered Josephine’s lessons well enough. Ixchel picked it up and turned it over in her hands to make sure it was clean, then cast about for the mask of the house to whom the ring belonged.

She found a woman set apart from the rest, looking about warily. “Maker,” she heard the woman whine to herself.

Ixchel was careful to approach her from the front, despite the fact that her arrival would be clearly announced by the jingling of her hems. At the sight of her, the woman went very stiff, as though caught in the gaze of a predator. But Ixchel simply bowed and extended her hand. “My lady,” she said sweetly, “I found this in the grass as I walked with the Grand Duke. I came to return it as soon as I had a moment to spare.”

“Oh!” The woman took the ring, then raised a gloved hand to her mouth. “You are a treasure, my dear! I cannot believe you found it!”

“Neither can I,” Ixchel offered. “Such a small, but beloved thing. Still, I won’t question such providence.” She turned with a parting smile, jingling.

“Andraste watches over you, then. Enjoy the party, Inquisitor!” the woman called. “Look, the Inquisitor found my ring!”

Ixchel continued to wander the grounds, ears pricked. She saw Solas quickly ducking out of view of several noble ladies, who then turned in surprise.

“Where has that servant gone? Elves. Always shirking their duties.”

It was peak irony that he of all people would bring shame upon the elves for his behavior. She ignored the disparaging comment, ignored Solas’s suspicious skulking, and continued her rounds. She passed two nobles from houses who had allied, respectively, with Gaspard and Celene; they were sanding on either side of a planter full of white roses, whispering to each other with their backs turned.

“Any word from the front lines?” one asked.

“My spies said the bodies were beyond counting.”

“Surely, the Empress will put an end to the war tonight. She must!”

“Pray, my friend. If the Maker does not hear us now…” There was a collective shudder. “Just, pray.”

Ixchel made sure to walk conspicuously by at that moment—an answer, perhaps, to a prayer. The woman’s breath caught noticeably at the sight of her as she swept away. Then Ixchel vanished into the shadows of a hallway; thus hidden, she gathered her hem up in a fist to silence it and crept back to listen, inconspicuous and forgotten.

“That was _her?”_ Celene’s supporter asked.

“Do you know, she personally cleared Gaspard’s battlements of the undead—not to claim them for her own armies, but to return them to Gaspard?”

“So then she supports the Usurper?”

“No, no, she did it for Celene’s, too. And she did it without her army! Just her own shining axe!”

“My dear friend, why would an elf help either the Chevaliers or the Empress?”

“Because it was the right thing to do!” Gaspard’s supporter hissed. “She even gathered the affects of the fallen and gave them to the Grand Marshall, to be returned to their families. See?” From the sounds Ixchel could make it, it seemed the woman had withdrawn some parchment from her bodice and showed it to her companion. “It is from my Robert.”

“Oh, my dear, I did not know. My condolences.”

Ixchel crept away then and snuck over the edge of a balcony to drop into the shadows of the first floor again.

She landed right next to Josephine.

Josephine shuddered at the surprise but did not scream. She cleared her throat. “Inquisitor, a moment, if you please?”

“You’re just full of joy and light this evening,” Ixchel noted.

“Andraste watch over us all,” Josephine breathed. “Everything will be just fine.” She sighed. “You handled the Grand Duke quite well. I believe it was an oversight for us not to make your military might more prominent, but reminding him of his army’s weakness in the face of the Venatori threat was exactly the right step.”

Ixchel sighed. “We still don’t need to frame it as military might,” she said. “It’s not just the fact that Gaspard could not organize a victory there against Celene, and it’s not just that neither of them could rout the Venatori on the battlements. People’s friends and family have been lost to that war, and the survivors have had little comfort from their leaders.” She released her jingling skirt and let it fall back into place about her thighs. “My martial deeds were a service for the people, as the Herald of Andraste. That angle still serves us.”

Josephine nodded. “I will remind everyone of that, for their own conversations. In a few minutes, we shall be invited to enter the vestibule. That is where I imagine we might begin to see beyond some of these more cautious masks.”

“I’ll be ready then,” Ixchel promised.

She followed Josephine to their place in front of the inner gate, and when the call came for them to proceed, she led the way up the grand steps into the Winter Palace proper. The room was aglow with a thousand candles, and the blues and golds never failed to take her breath away when she entered it. For once—and unlike her first visit to Halamshiral—she felt like she might match the grandeur of the setting.

The floor was cold under her bare toes, but perhaps that only encouraged her to float.

She kept the heavy cloak on her shoulders as she mounted the steps into the vestibule, where a valet came and took the cloak and went back down the grand stairs and into a coatroom. Pointless effort, she thought. She then glided away off around the perimeter of the room. Her entourage followed in her wake, chatting and taking in the scenery.

Whenever Ixchel’s ears perked up, she would subtly reach for one of her companions’ elbows and give them a bright smile. This first occurred as she passed by a slight, lovely young woman sitting on a bench beside a forlorn dowager. “I had wanted to tour the Royal Wing Gardens,” the older woman was sighing, as though it were her dying wish.

“I have heard the Empress is renovating the fountain,” said her younger companion. “She wishes to gild the figure of Andraste, so that she looks like she is aflame in the morning light.”

The older woman patted the girl’s hand. “I should have known, given Celene’s piety,” she replied. “I cannot wait for them to reopen. I do enjoy contemplating the Chant beneath those vines…”

Ixchel left Cassandra there, at a nearby railing. Next, she deposited Cullen in a corner near some men discussing the war efforts—body counts, troop movements, trebuchets. She gave Varric a look when she spotted dwarven lyrium merchants in the back of the room, and Varric sighed and went to examine a nearby statue.

She was not able to plant any more of her allies before the call came for her introduction. She gathered everyone back up again, then nodded at the doorman.

Knights opened the doors, and she strode in, each step purposeful and purposefully graceful amid the swirl of her dangling fabric and dragon scales. The imperial crier nodded at her, scanned the entourage, and then returned to his post at the railing, overlooking the dance floor.

Josephine gave her arm a squeeze of encouragement.

Ixchel led her people down to the next level and stood at their forefront. Unlike the dark balcony, here, the lights shone bright on her head. The golden dragon scales, the hint of pyrophite, and the white of her bodice scattered the intense candlelight about her in a gauzy halo that flickered with every movement, like a star plucked from the heavens.

She breathed deeply, evenly, and tried not to think thoughts of rebellion. But when had the last set of bare Dalish feet walked this floor with honor?

A hush fell across the room as the sparkles of her refracted light illuminated every corner.

“And now, presenting!” the crier began.

Ixchel began to descend the steps. Lords and ladies gathered in the wings of the dance floor turned to look at her. Some curtsied and bowed; one or two even raised their fists to their chests in the Inquisition salute. Most simply stared.

“Inquisitor Ixchel Lavellan,” she was announced, “Herald of blessed Andraste, Shepherd of the Order of Templars, Mediator of the Free Mages, Champion of the Faithful, Defender of Thedas!”

Ixchel climbed the last step to face Celene, where the Empress was perched like a jewel at the center of a crown. The Empress did not sparkle, per say, in her sapphire gown, but the rich, dark fabric drew the eye just the same for its darkness amid the sea of bright pastel birds that surrounded her.

The Dalish Inquisitor and the fair Empress of Fire locked eyes, and neither released the other while the rest of the Inquisition was announced behind Ixchel.

“Accompanying the Inquisitor: Lady Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra, nine times removed; Hero of Orlais, Right Hand of the Divine! Madame Vivienne, First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi, Knight-Enchanter of the Imperial Court, Mistress of the Duke of Ghislain. Renowned author Varric Tethras, head of noble House Tethras, Deshyr of Kirkwall to the Dwarven Merchants Guild! Lord Dorian Pavus, of the Circle of Vyrantium, scion of House Pavus of Asariel… And Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, Commander of the forces of the Inquisition, former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, Ambassador of the Inquisition and lead tradeswoman! Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court, veteran of the Fifth Blight, Seneschal of the Inquisition and Left Hand of the Divine.”

Thus assembled behind the Inquisitor, Ixchel allowed herself to exhale. Celene bowed her head, ceding the staring match, at least.

“Honored Inquisitor,” Celene called, and the room hushed to hear her address the Herald of Andraste. Celene’s hands were suspended stiffly in the air in front of her, as though to ward off the scrutiny like one might defend against a blow. “We welcome you to the Winter Palace. Your arrival at court is like a cool wind on a summer’s day,” Celene said, punctuating her words with a slight push of her hands toward Ixchel.

Ixchel curtsied. “Let’s hope the breeze does not herald an oncoming storm,” she called up to the Empress.

Celene tilted her head to consider her words. Here, Ixchel knew, was someone who did not underestimate the Inquisition’s military threat; perhaps she had not quite considered her a true threat in the Game as well. If she had not been afraid before, she was now.

Ixchel decided she needed to begin an inward tally of herself, to keep track of any inadvertent way she might be reinforcing the rumor that she had an eye on the crown. That was the problem with speaking in pretty poetry alone: half the message was decided by its interpreter.

“Be careful,” Celene said at last. “Even the wisest may mistake but a fair breeze as an oncoming storm… We have heard much of your exploits, Inquisitor. They have made grand tales for long evenings.” The storm, at least, had passed for now. “Tell me, how do you find Halamshiral?”

Ixchel leaned, placing her weight slightly to one side so that her draping skirts fell back and left one leg forward—foot bare on the marble. There could be no denying that a moody Dalish elf stood before the Empress of Orlais, and was not impressed. She smiled at Celene and selected pretty poetry once more: “I…have no words, Your Radiance,” she said. “Halamshiral has many beauties, and the _common_ tongue cannot do them justice.”

Celene’s hands dipped slightly in the air, the only sign that she might have picked up on Ixchel’s meaning. “Your modesty does you credit, and speaks well of the Inquisition,” Celene relented. “Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom, Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you dance.”

Ixchel bowed, allowed Celene to depart first, and then led her own faction up into the wings. She paused at the top of the stairs and watched her people scatter, then: Cassandra, Varric, and Cullen out to the vestibule once more, Bull and Solas following them to go to the Hall of Heroes, and Dorian and Vivienne out to the gardens. Josephine was pulled away by her sister, and Leliana went to pay her respects to another old dowager of some sort or another.

Morrigan was nowhere to be found at the moment. Briala, Celene, and Gaspard were gathered over a table arguing with one another, and Celene’s handmaidens were preoccupied. That meant, then, that Ixchel’s next mission was to simply be seen.

“Can you believe the Inquisition filled its ranks with apostates?”

“But even you cannot deny the Templars abandoned the faithful in the darkest hour, my friend! Better the Inquisition watch the mages than have them performing their blood rituals and orgies in the Ferelden wilderness!”

Ixchel tried not to raise her eyebrows as she drifted by the debaters. She recognized their insignia from her time in the Free Marches rather than any familiarity she had with Orlesian nobility: they were wealthy Marcher houses allied with Starkhaven, which meant Prince Sebastian had already arrived. She wondered what had inspired him to attend the ball, when he had not made the long boat ride previously. It would be gauche to inquire about his whereabouts—in these gatherings, unsolicited meetings were as much a sign of providence as they were a sign of one’s powers of observance. But at least she would be prepared.

Ixchel locked eyes with the Lady Mantillon at her cocktail table. The dowager tilted her champagne flute in her direction, and Ixchel guessed that she was being summoned.

“A Dalish in the Winter Palace,” the dowager mused. Ixchel tucked her hands behind her back and clenched her fists to steady herself for the blow that followed—but it was a blow that never came. “You are more genteel than the Grand Duke, more holy than the Left and Right Hands of the Divine combined…” The dowager chuckled. “Will that be enough to put this lot in their place, I wonder?”

“The night is very young, Lady Mantillon,” Ixchel said in her most sage tone. “I have yet to walk through the paces of my dance. Once I have, perhaps I might earn a round or two with you.”

The elderly woman’s eyes were bright and sharp behind her mask. “You, Inquisitor, are a delight,” she pronounced. Ixchel unclenched her fists; she had performed well enough in this first round, then. “One does not often find foreigners so well-versed in the game. But you are correct: you have other dances to perform, first.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Ixchel said, and bowed her way out of the dowager’s sights.

Ixchel passed Josephine and Yvette, and her Ambassador reached out to draw her close. “Was that Lady Mantillon?” Josephine asked breathlessly. “Half Val Royeaux must be empty, then, if so many of the empire’s finest are in attendance! She seemed pleased with you, yes?”

“I believe so.” Ixchel shrugged one shoulder and allowed herself to relax her neck, looking down at the fine carpet. “If I interpreted the signs correctly, I believe she would use my appearance tonight to set a standard for worshippers.” She looked up through her lashes at Josephine wryly. “Perhaps Cassandra will have some luck, and the Chantry will ditch the hats at Lady Mantillon’s suggestion.”

“Ha!” Josephine covered her giggle with splayed fingers. “You are certainly off to a good start, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel let out a breath and curled her toes in the carpet briefly before regaining her composure and correcting her posture. “Night is young,” she reminded Josephine, then turned to her sister.

Ixchel allowed Josephine’s star-struck sister to fawn over her for a few moments, then bowed. “Forgive me, Lady Yvette. I know you are in good hands here with the Ambassador, but I see many more guests who have not had the pleasure of Inquisition company. Do enjoy your evening.”

Ixchel left Leliana and Josephine, then, and went to check on Cassandra, Varric, Bull, and Solas—after one more circuit around the ballroom, of course. She entered the vestibule to find her companions seemingly faring quite well. Heads turned as she passed by, of course, but quickly turned back to the continue the conversations with the Inquisition agents scattered about the room.

Varric caught up with her by a railing, where she had knelt to capture a caprice coin. “Lyrium merchants across Thedas are losing customers,” he said under his breath. “It even sounds like both sides of the civil war have picked up with the mystery supplier, because they’re not asking for the usual stuff at all anymore. These guys think it might be Carta. I haven’t told them otherwise, yet.”

Ixchel twisted her lips up in a brief scowl and then shook her head. “That’s not good. Are both lions feeding red lyrium to their battle mages?”

“That’s my guess,” Varric agreed. “But it’s not just here. Minrathous, of course, but the Free Marches too. It’s making Sebastian antsy.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You spoke with Prince Vael?”

“Briefly.” Varric shifted uneasily, looked down at his hands. “He didn’t seem too keen to talk to me, but it sounds like there’s more and more red lyrium cropping up in the Marches—Starkhaven and Kirkwall included.”

Ixchel drummed her fingers lightly on the marble bannister. That would mean it had probably reached Wycome, too, which concerned her for the sake of Terinelan and Clan Lavellan. But more than that, it meant that even unwittingly, Celene and Gaspard both had allied themselves with Corypheus. If she could win the night properly, it _would_ be quite nice for both leaders to use their ties to the red lyrium supply to help track Samson down…

She patted Varric on the shoulder and slid off, suddenly wary of both Prince Vael and Duke Antoine alike. Whatever had brought the Free Marchers here, it didn’t seem to be out of good will alone.

Ixchel passed through the warmly-lit Hall of Heroes and dipped down into the lower half to examine the statues—and eavesdrop on Gaspard’s Chevaliers stationed just above her. She spotted another handful of caprice coins while she pressed herself against the marble.

“Have you heard from your nephew?”

“Not since his regiment was sent to the Exalted Plains. Proulx only _just_ contacted Gaspard…it does not sound good.”

“My condolences.”

“And you have mine as well. I heard about your cousin…”

The Chevaliers fell into a mournful silence, and Ixchel moved on. She spied blood smeared on the doorhandle to the servants’ quarters, and she narrowed her eyes. _This early in the night?_ she thought.

It did seem, then, that the Venatori were acting in anticipation of her preparations and awareness. She picked up her pace.

In the next hall, she did not find Solas as she had suspected, but rather Bull—presiding over a court of giggling young women. Ixchel blinked at him, but he smiled and shook his head; he did not need a rescue, then. Not immediately, at least.

“Well, well,” a voice murmured behind her. She turned to find the Duke Germain in the next doorway. “The Inquisitor?”

Ixchel curtsied. “Indeed. I would hope that you are pleased, Duke Germain, having your family gathered under one roof in peace once more.”

The duke snorted. “Always a difficult child, Gaspard,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Never listened, never did what he was told. He was raised a prince! Why not! All his life, we told him he would be an emperor. It was his destiny, his duty!”

The duke sighed wearily in a way that was much more earnest than Ixchel might have expected from such a grandly dressed Orlesian noble; she suspected it was a ploy for sympathy, so she would offer it for now. She drew slightly closer and pressed one ivory-taloned hand—the one with the Anchor—over her heart in concern. “It cannot be that any disgrace or blame would fall on you, my lord?” she asked with wide eyes.

The duke gave her a twisted, bitter smile and leaned against the doorframe. “I cannot help but feel somewhat responsible for the bloodshed. War is an ugly thing, but what else would he do with his life, if not fight for his destiny?” He shook his head.

“But what about your niece?” Ixchel asked. “The Grand Duchess has a place of honor here at the Empress’s side!”

“Dear Florianne…she hasn’t spoken to me all evening. That’s not like her.” Duke Germain shook his head once more and pushed off of the doorframe. He bowed to Ixchel. “I thank you for your attention, my lady. Few have offered it to me this night.”

“I relish the opportunity to extend a rare kindness in this court,” Ixchel replied, and returned his bow with a curtsy of her own.


	62. Herd of Stone Halla

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/27/20

There was a soft murmur in the chamber behind the Duke, full of paintings and statues, and they traded places; he wandered out into the hall, and she slipped in to the room he had just vacated. All eyes were on her—surreptitiously, of course. They glanced out of the corner of masks and hid behind fluttering fans as she picked up another caprice coin and passed it daringly between her fingers, made it dance and flicker like a fish between reeds—a little trick she’d picked up as an urchin.

It delighted the onlookers.

She returned to the hall and nearly ran right into the Council of Heralds vassal.

“Damn it, knife-ear, would you look where you are going?”

At that, Ixchel stepped even more firmly _in to_ his way. She made sure to end her movement with her feet planted shoulder-width apart, her shoulders pushed back, and her chin up. Her skirts of dragon bone and Dalish banner weave caught the man’s attention, and he raised his eyes slowly from her bare feet up to her scarred and painted face.

“Ah—ah, my lady Inquisitor,” he stuttered. “I, uh—”

“If you’d tell me what has preoccupied you, _serrah_ , then I might not tell our next Divine that you uttered such filth amidst the faithful gathered here today,” she said. There was no smile in her face or voice, and the man went very pale against the periwinkle blue of his coat.

“My partner, Philippe, should have returned hours ago,” he offered quickly. “He is no doubt dallying with some pretty rabbit while I deal with Gaspard’s vitriol!”

Ixchel’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. Outlined in white as they were, however, Gaspard’s vassal could not help but see it; he _gulped_. “I mean…tonight of all nights, leaving me to convey Gaspard’s death threats to the Council! What cruelty!”

“Better,” she said. “Do you believe the Grand Duke would throw his weight behind his threats, my lord?” she asked sharply.

“W-well, no.”

“Do you agree with his tactic, these threats, serrah?”

“Er…”

Ixchel shifted her weight to one side and sent her skirt swinging again. The vassal’s eyes followed the sharp lines of the scales on her waist, and landed on the taloned hand that now rested there. “What I mean,” she said, “is do you wish to be associated with a missive of death for the Council?”

Gaspard’s vassal took a deep breath. “No, Inquisitor.”

The tension in her stance melted. “Then I foresee two options, my lord,” she said, with a much gentler tone and a sweet, pitying smile. “You can tell Gaspard what you think of his methods, and the amoral brush with which it would paint you—or,” and she hurried to speak, for the man had opened his mouth to protest again, “I would recommend you preoccupy yourself for the night with Philippe. Inform the Dowager, if you must, but draw out the fuss. It’s dishonorable for Philippe to shirk his duties, and it would necessarily render you indisposed to delivering death threats.”

The man blinked at her for a moment in a stunned silence. Then, he took a step back, and bowed low to the ground. “You are too kind, Inquisitor,” he said.

She scoffed. “I might agree. Don’t put it to waste, my lord. Scurry off.”

He nodded and slunk away in the direction of the ballroom and the dowager.

Ixchel continued walking; Bull joined her.

“It’s like you’ve done this before,” he said.

“You too,” she replied. “How’re they treating the ‘Inquisition’s ox’?”

“Definitely not as nicely as they’re treating you, behind your back, ‘knife-ear,’” he said ruefully. “This keeps up, I’m going to wear somebody’s _skull_ as my fancy little mask.”

Ixchel glanced at him, but he winked with his remaining eye. “What’s your take, Ben-Hassrath?” she asked.

“As fashion goes? I don’t know… I’ve see dumber?” He shrugged. “I’ve got some gossip for Lady Nightingale. Nothing on the Venatori so far.”

“Servants?” she asked. “I saw blood on the handle to their quarters.”

Bull stopped walking abruptly, and she followed his example immediately. He stared over her head at something she hadn’t seen, then nodded. “Two elves behind you. One of them is bleeding from the leg—all over the marble. They’re trying not to look at you.”

Ixchel frowned. “Meaning?”

“Meaning they _want_ your attention.” Bull nodded. “Better hurry before the guards come to throw them out for such a grave sin or whatever. Bleeding. Or breathing. You know.”

The Inquisitor turned; as she did, her gaze swept across the two servants Bull had spotted in the crowd. With a slightly more obvious motion with her eyes, she indicated they should follow her out onto a balcony.

They hurried after her.

 _“Rogasha’ghi’lan,”_ the injured one said in a low voice. She squared her shoulders at the title, and she tucked it away in the back of her mind again. _What was going on?_ These were probably Briala’s people, but they were calling her the same thing as the group at the gates the previous day--and she still did not understand where that had come from. “Not a single elf has left the servant’s wing alive this evening. We were supposed to have a drop an hour ago. Turned into an ambush by some harlequin-dressed fellows. Our guy’s likely dead by now.”

“Where was the drop?” she asked.

“Royal Wing Garden,” his companion said. “The one Celene’s got ‘under renovation.’” He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Ixchel nodded slowly, and her gaze slid away from them as she thought. She noticed the blood on the ground, leading to a patch of grass behind the railing. “Did you leave a note here for Briala?” she asked.

They winced almost in unison. “We’ve _all_ been leaving notes for her,” one said quietly. “She isn’t picking them up.”

She put her hand out on the railing between herself and the elves. “How many names are in that note?” she asked.

“Four. Just from the past three hours.”

Ixchel nodded. She could easily guess that Briala was too conspicuous a figure to slip away from the negotiations, and it was likely she was too familiar to the human servants and guards in the palace to sneak around without getting accosted.

That just meant that Ixchel would do her job for her.

“Keep all the elves upstairs, serving here,” she told them. “Make sure _no one_ goes to the servants’ quarters, the kitchens, or to to the royal wing. Anyone down there may have been _already_ massacred. If anyone is in immediate danger, have them find Commander Cullen of the Inquisition.” She glanced down at the elf’s bloodied leg. A pool had formed beneath him. “Will you be able to seek medical attention?”

They hesitated too long. She clenched her jaw. “If you trust me, meet me on the walkway above the guest gardens—in front of the doors to the library. I’ll have one of my own heal you.”

Both young men slumped with relief. They bowed. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel left first and made her way, quickly, to the guest gardens in search of Dorian. She had forgotten that the Empress’s handmaidens would be on her trail, and when she opened the door to the gardens she nearly ran into the wall of _frilly women_ standing on the other side.

“My lady!”

“Lady Inquisitor!”

“May we have a word?”

Ixchel clearly looked too antsy, because they pressed closer. “The Empress has sent us with a message for you! It is _very_ important.”

Ixchel gritted her teeth into a facsimile of a smile and nodded. “Always honored to hear from Her Majesty,” she said.

“Oh, _she_ is the honored one, Inquisitor!” one of the three ladies cried. They each dipped into a low curtsy, one-by-one.

Then, another clasped her hands in front of her as an opera singer might, and began to recite the message. “Empress Celene is eager to assist the Herald of Andraste in her holy endeavor. She will pledge her full support to the Inquisition as soon as the usurper Gaspard is defeated.”

Ixchel shook her head. “Such a generous offer,” she said, then added with a wry, lopsided smile, “to do one’s _expected_ duty.”

One of the ladies frowned behind her mask. “The Empress believes wholeheartedly that the Inquisition is our best hope for peace in these difficult times,” she said firmly.

“She looks forward to cementing a beneficial alliance.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Ixchel raised one eyebrow at the gathered women.

“As soon as Gaspard is out of the way,” one said, giving in.

“Well, thank you for conveying Celene’s message,” Ixchel said dismissively. “It makes one feel so important, to be given even a sparing thought in-between such important duties.” She shrugged and breezed ahead, leaving the Valmonts curtsying in her wake.

Dorian melted out of the shrubbery and simpering and intercepted her.

“This is all so familiar!” he breathed with an air of excitation that was only half-affected. “I keep expecting my mother to materialize from the crowd and criticize my manners.”

She gave him a pointed smile, and he followed her slowly and inconspicuously into a shaded archway. “Don’t make yourself too at home,” she warned him as they walked. “I’d hate to lose you to the frilly handkerchiefs.”

“I’m telling you, Ixchel. The same double-dealing, elegant poison, canapes… It’s lacking only a few sacrificial slaves and some blood magic.” His smile had disappeared. “No, I don’t think I’d like to stay long.”

“The night is still young,” she said darkly. “Dorian, do you have that ring?”

He held up a gloved hand, where the garnet ring sparkled winningly. One twist, and he could vanish for a few seconds—long enough to run up a flight of stairs, perhaps.

“Do you see that lattice behind me?”

“Beautiful blooms, this time of year,” he observed helpfully.

“At the top is a terrace. I will be there with an elf who needs a healer’s attention immediately. You’ll be able to see us from a window in the library—enter through the vestibule.” She glanced over her shoulder. “At least four of Briala’s people have been killed already. I expect the entire host of servants was murdered before the first guest ever arrived.”

“ _Fenedhis_ ,” Dorian muttered.

“Speaking of.” She frowned. “I need to find Fenris. Anyway. Diversion, will you?”

“See you in a moment, my dear,” he agreed, and he left the safety of the shadows. Ixchel watched as his gait changed; that was the only thing she could identify that might have signaled something worthy of attention. Yet even so, the whole host of guests in the garden angled themselves to watch him, to get closer, to speak to him. She never had quite figured out how Dorian did it, but he had a way of simply turning _on_ attention when he wanted it.

Ixchel tied her skirt in such a way that it wouldn’t make a noise, and no one noticed a small, white-and-gold elf climb up the vines to the next floor. The elves had seemingly only just arrived; the injured one slid down a wall and began rolling up his legging to expose the wound. Ixchel padded over to join them. “Alright, it looks quick and clean. You’re lucky.” She eyed him. “You trust me?”

He nodded.

She straightened up just as a door opened behind her. A moment later, and the magic that had shrouded Dorian dissolved away into smoke. The elves beside her went tense at the sight of him, but neither spoke as Dorian knelt and silently began to tend to the wound.

Ixchel explored the terrace quickly and came back with a few caprice coins and something much more precious.

“You know what these are?” she asked her companions.

“Halla,” the uninjured elf agent said helpfully.

“They’re keys,” she informed him. “The Orlesians burnt everything to the ground and destroyed most of our holdings when they stole the Dales, but then they rebuilt Halamshiral in our image anyway. They like to lay claim to our land, our history, our magic, without understanding it at all. Because it’s fashion, because it’s cruel, because they _can_.”

She cupped the little halla in her palm and contemplated it darkly. Then she slipped it into her bodice.

“Thank Dorian when he’s done,” she told the elves. “I’m going to keep investigating. And remember my warning.”

“Aye, Inquisitor. Thank you.”

Ixchel nodded at them and plunged into the grand library of Halamshiral.

She found Morrigan waiting for her. A man dressed in white harlequin’s robes hung from the ceiling by his feet, silently struggling against bonds Ixchel could not see.

“Good of you to join us, Inquisitor,” Morrigan sang in a voice like crushed velvet. She flicked her wrist, and the Harlequin dropped several feet in the air, then jerked to a stop. “‘Tis just as you said.”

“And the eluvians?” Ixchel asked.

“Still under the Ambassador’s control, I believe.” The witch turned and gestured elegantly with her free hand. “I have a month’s worth of court gossip, a drawing from Kieran, and several of the curious halla statuettes you asked for.”

Ixchel gaped at Morrigan. The witch raised a well-sculpted eyebrow, and Ixchel shook herself out of her stupor. “I will not betray your trust, Lady Morrigan,” she said passionately. “Thank you.”

“I partly did it just to see you flat-footed.” Morrigan chuckled. “Now, go. Put it to good use—I have done you _quite_ the mountain of favors. I will see what juice I can ring out of this fool before the first bell.”

Ixchel turned to gather the documents and statuettes. Morrigan had helpfully laid an empty wrist purse beside it, and she stuffed her plunder inside. Then, she headed into the library. Morrigan called after her: “You owe your seamstress quite the favor, Inquisitor. You are dressed as an ancient Dalish banner crown. One might even think you seek one yourself.”

The Inquisitor did not rise to the assertion and simply ducked her head to flee. She was careful to wipe her feet on the carpet before she returned to the party through the back doors to the library, and she unbound her skirts as soon as the door closed behind her. Once again the picture of decorum and ease, she glided down the stairs.

Varric and Cassandra were clearly tied up with intense conversations at the moment, so she hurried back to the gardens in search of free agents.

She was running out of places to look for Solas, and it unnerved her that she had not seen or heard of him since he disappeared in the outer courtyard shortly after their arrival. After his long absence on the road, her strange dreams of the foci, and now the sudden appearance of elves calling her the name he had given her as his champion, she felt less certain of his motives—and therefore, the future of the world—than ever before. How ironic, that in the very moment in which she could possibly have _the most_ hope for him, she held the deepest doubt.

On the way to the garden, she flagged down Bull. “Find Solas,” she hissed to him.

She found Vivienne sitting beside the fountain where, just a few minutes prior, Ixchel had climbed up a wall of vines. The First Enchanter smiled at her coolly. “Have you heard the speculations, Inquisitor? Half the palace is being renovated.” She dipped one finger in the water of the fountain. “I heard that they’re not renovations, but the castle was damaged by Gaspard’s catapults. How monstrous.” It was clear from her smile and her tone that she did not believe it for a moment.

“Want to see for yourself?” Ixchel asked with a tight smile.

Vivienne unfolded her lithe form from her perch and tipped a caprice coin in to the fountain in parting.

“Thought you’d never ask,” she sighed.

They swept back into the palace, their strides purposeful and therefore unquestioned by anyone. “I must admit, I am surprised to see you playing the Game with such grace,” Vivienne remarked as they walked. “You seem emboldened, radiating authority. No doubt partly due to the trappings, but not entirely.”

“It’s all a mask, Vivienne, as you know.” Ixchel took a sharp breath in through her nose and held it as she passed a particularly strong cloud of cologne.

“It is inspiring, nonetheless. Even Cassandra has made great efforts to further your goals this night.”

They lowered their voices as they entered the Hall of Heroes and strolled down to the door by the servants’ quarters. They stood in front of a statue nearby and waited for a rush in foot traffic through the room to disguise their movements.

“Does everyone still think I want to be Empress?” Ixchel asked under her breath.

 _“No one_ knows what to make of you yet, my dear.” Vivienne smiled thinly. “Everyone has left conversations with the Inquisition feeling _better_ , but in a place like this, that only breeds more suspicion. Now, I know what you said to Celene was meant to be a fair warning of the Venatori threat, but those who wanted to hear a threat from _you_ will have heard it.” Vivienne held up a hand, as though she had seen doubt flash across Ixchel’s face. “No long-term damage, I suspect. Particularly if we are able to prove the Tevinter presence.”

Ixchel sighed with some relief. “Morrigan apprehended a Venatori harlequin,” she said. “She’s questioning him now.”

Vivienne frowned, but before she could comment, Dorian walked in with a large crowd. He broke away from the group to join them.

“My back is killing me already,” she whined softly. “Looking _stately_ is so much work.”

“You have a terrible slouch on a good day,” Dorian said distastefully. “You should practice more.”

It seemed like Bull and Solas would not be joining them in a timely fashion, so as the crowd passed through the hall and their loud chatter echoed discordantly around them, Dorian opened the door to the servants’ quarters and Ixchel darted in.

She had expected a bloodbath.

She had expected a scene as gruesome as last time—or worse.

She had not expected a clean and silent kitchen.


	63. The Servants' Quarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/27/20

There were no bodies strewn across the floor, no pools of blood and splattered viscera in the kitchen. She went in to the servants’ barrack and found a few corpses, but nowhere near as many as she had anticipated. A rustle behind her, in the direction of the kitchen, nearly triggered Dorian and Vivienne’s instincts for murder—but it was only Lace Harding crawling out of a barrel.

“Inquisitor,” Lace whispered.

Ixchel hurried over in a crouch, instinctively feeling the present danger of the situation.

“Something’s going on in the courtyard,” Harding breathed. She unwound a ream of burlap from around a fine longsword, which she handed to Ixchel, and then from within the barrel she produced an apron. Ixchel ducked into it and tied it loosely around her waist—for all her jokes, it would not do to get blood on it. “I think Solas and the glowy-elf are out there.”

“How long?” Ixchel mouthed.

Harding hesitated. “A long time,” she admitted.

Ixchel gestured for Vivienne and Dorian, and they hurried out into the courtyard. Lace slipped out through a back window.

In the Royal Wing Gardens, Ixchel could see the huddled form of a dead nobleman. But to the south she could hear a battle.

“Stay back with me,” Dorian told her. “I’ll pick off the ranged ones. Vivienne, try and lure the more brutish swordy ones over to engage with Ixchel. Less chance of getting your own blood on that dress.”

Ixchel grit her teeth but nodded.

They jumped down into the courtyard and marched in the direction of the fighting. The arching wysteria formed alleys where rogues and harlequins could easily hide, and it seemed that they _had_ tried to hide there. As Ixchel led her trio cautiously down the path, they found bodies upon bodies of Tevinter ages lying broken off to the side, stacked on top of each other, out of the way.

Ahead, light flared—and the song of Fenris’s lyrium swelled.

“Fire!”

That was Solas’s voice.

What sounded like half a dozen bows _twanged_ , followed by the sickening and wet thuds of arrows meeting their mark. Vivienne bent the Veil around herself and shot forward through the Fade, reappearing in the next courtyard with her short divining rod in one hand and a gleaming white energy blade in the other.

She turned her head and caught a target in her sights, and she leaped into battle. Ixchel and Dorian hurried after her.

They stepped out into the courtyard and found Solas, Fenris, and Vivienne engaged with a huddle of spellbinders and rogues. Archers—allied, apparently—were positioned in the windows above the courtyard. Ixchel had no time to make any real observations, because a harlequin jumped down from a rooftop and landed heavily beside her. The fall had clearly winded them, but they spun out their leg to try and trip her while they had the opening.

Ixchel jumped high and struck out with her foot as she came down. She caught the harlequin’s mask and sent it clattering; as her first foot touched the ground, she snapped her hips, swung her weight around, and kicked upwards again. This time, her foot connected with her opponent’s jaw.

Hard.

There was a sickening crack as the man’s neck twisted and snapped, and he slumped to the ground.

Ixchel hopped lamely on one foot and hissed in displeasure. She was not used to such maneuvers without heavy boots on.

She waited uselessly while Dorian peppered the Venatori from afar and Vivienne, Solas, and Fenris engaged the last remaining enemies on their side of the courtyard. She knew Dorian had been right to tell her to hang back, but the adrenaline that raced through her begged her to introduce her steel to some flesh.

At last, the last formerly-Venatori-icicle burst into meaty shards, and the mages let their barriers fall.

Ixchel raced forward. “How long has this assault gone for?” she demanded. “Are you alright? Why didn’t you send for me?”

Fenris and Solas both stepped toward her in unison, and then they looked at each other. A critical expression was mirrored on each of their faces, and Ixchel’s heart stopped.

Oh, what had she done?

“I… _did_ send for you,” Solas said after a beat. “One of the Ambassador’s scouts. Injured in the leg?”

Ixchel stared at him. “He—you—”

He sighed and glanced back at Fenris, then away. “I thought you would have realized, if the messenger called you _rogasha’ghi’lan.”_

Ixchel’s jaw dropped.

She didn’t know what to do with that. “You are too tricky for your own good,” she said at last. “You could have just told him to get me! That you were in danger! I got so caught up in getting him healed and safe… And I came as quick as I could anyway, of course…but I…” She faltered at the terribly fond look on both Fenris and Solas's faces. She swallowed, shook her head, and changed tactics. “What are you doing with Briala’s people?”

The two elves in front of her looked up at the archers. Fenris made a sharp gesture with one hand, and the shadowy figures melted away into their hiding places once more. “We were both sneaking around, looking for Venatori,” he said. “Pretty easy to realize they were taking out the servants quarters. Your apostate—” he said, referring to Solas with a tinge of chagrin “—sought out the ones he knew were agents of the Ambassador and got them organized. We’ve been drawing the Venatori through here all night to reduce their numbers.”

“We have not found any plans or incriminating evidence on any of the bodies we searched,” Solas said apologetically.

Ixchel let loose a long, slow breath, and she crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at all of their bare feet on the bloodied cobblestones. “Well, thank you,” she said. “I’m certain Briala would thank you, as well.” She looked up at the shadows where she hoped the archers still stood. “The Ambassador has not been able to escape the Grand Duke and his groping Chevaliers,” she offered them. “I do not believe she has been alerted to the danger you’ve faced. I will make sure she knows.”

There was no response.

“That body was a Council of Heralds emissary,” Vivienne said. She had Fade-stepped back to the main courtyard with the fountain to examine the murder scene, and returned. “Curious to find him there. And even more curious—this bears the crest of the Chalons.” She held out a dagger, twirling the shortened staff that was her divining rod in the other hand.

“It’s Florianne,” Ixchel said.

Vivienne’s eyebrows shot up. Solas looked to her with great interest.

Ixchel lifted one hand from where she had crossed her arms, and she gestured in the air. “Gaspard has been fighting all his life for this throne out of a sense of duty and honor, as a Chevalier. Highly unlikely Briala would ally with Tevinter, considering.” She gestured now sweepingly at the gathered elves. Then, she lowered her voice. “You know. Elves. Tevinter. But of course, she could try to frame Gaspard. I’d bet she would also implicate Celene in some way. But it’s Florianne, because Florianne put in all this work for the party, because she’s always been putting in this work for the empire, and _she_ has never been promised a throne—though for all her life, she’s lived in the shadow of a promise of a throne.”

“Hmm.” Vivienne considered it, then chuckled. “One _could_ always find her clinging desperately to the Empress’s skirts. Good for her, growing some claws.”

“Varric thinks that Gaspard and Celene both are supplying red lyrium to their battlemages,” Ixchel added. “So even if we unmask Florianne, we’ll still have a threat—but it could be an opportunity. I need to find Samson and Calpernia, and that might just be the way. But I need something on each of them, to make them amenable to my favors.”

Solas tipped his chin back appraisingly, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. “Very astute, Inquisitor,” he said with a note of pride.

“To arms, Venatori!” a voice cried.

Fenris turned and charged without further ado.

“They are coming from the Grand Apartments!” Vivienne cried, and leaped into battle.

Ixchel reached for Solas’s arm and pulled him back away from the fray while Dorian took his place. She opened her mouth to speak, but the wrong words came out. “I missed you.”

His face hardly showed any indication that he had even heard her. His eyes searched her face as though he still waited for her to speak—as if he knew she regretted speaking and was giving her another chance.

She didn’t want another chance. She wanted him to respond.

Ixchel released him and gave in. “There’s something in those apartments, if they’re guarding it so carefully. Cover me.”

“Of course, lethallan.”

Ixchel bounced back on the balls of her feet, then launched herself forward. Solas’s barrier settled on her shoulders, and then a spray of lightning flew over her head to intercept several Venatori.

She pushed through the door they had just come out of—and then she was in the Grand Apartments, alone. She would have to race her way through as efficiently as possible if she were to collect whatever secrets were hidden there and still make it back to the ballroom by the strike of the second bell.

Fortunately, her bare feet were nearly silent on the marble in comparison to the metal boots of the Venatori gladiators and knights. Once she outran the first group, she slid into a hallway and ducked into an alcove full of furniture and statues draped in white covers; she was thankful for the smock Harding had given her, because if she crouched a little it covered her feet and made her blend in perfectly with the covered furniture.

As she silently spirited through the rooms, she began to recall just where she was and what she expected to find. She couldn’t think of what the _Venatori_ had wanted in the Grand Apartments, but she knew what Celene _didn’t_ want anyone to find.

For she had remembered convincing Briala that Celene still loved her.

That was before Ixchel had known that Celene had burned Halamshiral’s alienage with Briala in it. Of course, Celene had arrested Briala and spirited her out of the wreckage—certainly, for love. But if Celene did not love the elves, she did not love Briala. Not truly.

Ixchel felt the paltry contents of her stomach rise to her throat at the thought.

She spent the halla statuettes on the vault door regardless, and she pocketed the locket. It was true that if Gaspard or Florianne got their hands on it, it would ruin Celene. Better to be in the Inquisitor’s hands, then.

Ixchel had hoped that the most troublesome of the Venatori had been drawn out to the lower gardens already, but that was not to be the case. She slipped into a hallway and felt the air thrum with clandestine magic; at the last moment, Ixchel dodged out of the way as a single harlequin leaped off a crate and landed behind her.

She backed away, longsword at the ready, but she needn’t have bothered. A dagger whipped by her ear and embedded itself in the man’s throat.

Ixchel turned to Briala.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Briala said with a laughing smile. “Shouldn’t you be dancing, Inquisitor? What will the nobility say?”

“ _Aren’t_ I dancing, Ambassador?” Ixchel replied flatly. She listened for a moment, ears twitching for the sound of bells, but she did not hear them.

“You have some time,” Briala assured her. “Moments, perhaps, but time.”

Ixchel followed the Ambassador on to the nearby balcony.

“I came down to save or avenge my missing people, but you have beaten me to it. You have organized my own forces and led a retributive strike against the Venatori. You have ordered my people upstairs to safety. And they listen.” Briala turned and leaned back on the railing; her elbows braced her against the marble. “They have called you _rogasha’ghi’lan_. I have heard enough stories to know you at least deserve ‘ _brave_.’”

Ixchel fixed her sword to the fine belt at her hip and then cracked her knuckles uneasily. “You feel threatened by the ‘leader’ part.”

“You did not seek the independence of the Dales last we spoke,” said Briala slowly. “Perhaps I realize now my aspirations seemed small to you, and yours.”

“Briala.” Ixchel exhaled testily, then drew closer. “Briala, I don’t know how to tell you any other way: I want equality for the elves, and for all people. I am willing to shed blood for it, to throw the weight of my judgment on the cruel—no matter how proud or how humble they may be. I can’t imagine a world without crowns and empires, but I can imagine a world without cruelty. That’s what I want!”

 _“And how do you propose to accomplish that?”_ Briala insisted.

“Celene moves so slowly because culture doesn’t answer to law—culture overthrows laws it doesn’t like.” Ixchel clenched her fists in her skirts. “But culture doesn’t change when it’s _comfortable_. I’m going to make the world uncomfortable. I’m going to rise so high that all will see my mirrored shield, and they will shudder at the sight of themselves.” She met Briala’s eyes. “I am the Inquisitor, and I am a woman, and I am an elf, and I fight for anyone in need. I think that’s enough.”

Briala shook her head slowly. “Do you want the crown of the Dales?”

“No!”

“Do you want an empire?”

“No.”

“A position at court?”

“No—”

_“Then how will you do this!”_

Ixchel let her back hit the wall heavily and she crossed her arms again. “The Chantry is going through a reckoning. I’m going to support a candidate who will try and espouse the same views—out of her own heart, not out of any manipulation of mine. I’m going to show forgiveness to people publicly when they stumble, and encourage them to do better. I’m going to throw my weight behind the downtrodden when they are being crushed. No kingdom is large enough to hold the oppressed of all nations, Briala. My Inquisition could own the whole southern side of the continent, and still we would fill to bursting with immigrants seeking freedom. A revolution is needed across Thedas, and I will gladly be the unabashed face of it. I will feed the hungry and arm the wronged, and I will demand contrition from the cruel.”

She groaned. “It’ll be much more obvious how it’ll work once I finish saving the world, Ambassador.”

“You are very good at proselytizing,” Briala said with a small smile. “Far better than I. Perhaps you are more suited to be Queen.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself." Ixchel chewed her lip, then shrugged. "I can make you Marquise of the Dales by the end of this night,” she said suddenly.

A stillness fell over Briala then, slowly, like a heavy blanket settling across her shoulders. She swallowed. Whetted her lips. Then was still again.

“What?” she whispered.

“I have no qualms about it, really. But we’re going to need to have some long talks about history.” Ixchel raised a hand to her face, then paused just before she could smudge her makeup. “Fuck. Briala,” she groaned, “I just want to stop the world from burning. I’m happy to inspire revolutions, and cultural revolutions, but I’m not trying to remake the world for the elves. I don’t think segregating everyone by race is going to actually ensure peace or equality. And I’m not saying what I’m planning is going to work, but it sure doesn’t seem like anyone’s really tried it before.”

Briala was still staring at her.

Ixchel pushed herself off of the wall and turned. “I should get back. World to save, and all.”

By the time Ixchel reached the main palace once more, she had realized that she had forgotten about the locket entirely. She sighed, shucked off the apron that covered her dress, hid her sword, and returned to the party.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel decided it was time to rescue Cassandra. She swept in to the vestibule where she had last seen the Seeker, but she did not see Cassandra anywhere. She plodded through the Hall of Heroes and made her way to the gardens, but she only found Bull on her way out. He had positioned himself near a side table full of candied nuts.

“I found Solas,” she said helpfully. “And the ‘Vints.”

“Damn it,” Bull muttered. “I missed the fun?”

“There will be more yet. I need to make a few more rounds, then we’ll be investigating the Royal Chambers,” she said, then returned back to the vestibule just as the first bell rang.

She waited, inspecting her reflection in a gilded surface, for the second bell.

After its last peal had faded into the night, she nodded at the knights at the entrance to the ballroom. They pulled open the mighty doors, and she floated as unhurriedly and radiantly as she possibly could into the room.

There, she saw Cassandra speaking to the Prince of Starkhaven.

But she was intercepted by Florianne.

“Lady Inquisitor,” the Grand Duchess said as she came to block Ixchel’s path. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced. I am Grand Duchesse Florianne de Chalons, of Lydes. Welcome to my party.”

Ixchel gave her a unimpressed look. “Is this your song, my lady?”

Florianne cocked her head amid her butterfly crest.

Ixchel sighed. “This is Orlais. I know nothing happens by accident. What would you like to discuss?”

“I believe tonight you and I are both concerned by the actions of…a certain person. Come, dance with me. Spies will not hear us on the dance floor.”

Ixchel approached the Duchess more purposefully, stretched out one foot, bowed low, and extended her hand in the most exaggerated invitation she could possibly contort her body into. “I have been waiting all evening, Your Grace,” she said to the floor.

There was a delighted flutter of fans all around them. Florianne, for her part, gave a short, startled laugh. “Delightful.”

They descended the stairs and joined the crowd. It was a different tune than the last time Ixchel had danced with the Grand Duchess, and she was relieved that she—as petite as she was—wasn’t going to be expected to twirl the much taller human woman.

The dance was supposedly from the Free Marches, and it was set to a fast-paced rhythm that was annunciated by the pounding of the dancers’ feet. Ixchel had heard it called many things, but she preferred ‘human knot.’ There was much crossing of ankles and twisting of arms, weaving legs together then coming apart. It was very easy to trip.

Fortunately, she had a very low center of gravity.

“Have the Dalish gained a sudden passion for politics?” Florianne asked in a moment where they drew closer to one another. “What do you know about our civil war?”

Ixchel laughed gaily. “I assure you, the effects of this war reach far beyond the borders of the Orlesian empire.”

“Perhaps it does!” Florianne already had a sheen of sweat on her brow above her dainty mask. “I should not be surprised to find the Empire is at the center of everyone’s world.”

They spun away, switched partners, then returned.

“It took great efforts to secure tonight’s negotiations, yet one would use the opportunity for blackest treason. The security of the Empire is at stake. Neither one of us wishes to see it fall.”

Ixchel allowed her most vicious, carnivorous grin to cross her face. “ _Do_ we both want that, Lady Florianne?”

Florianne’s eyes were locked on Ixchel, the gruesome twist of her scars, the poisonous color of her lips, the fierce gleam in her feral eyes. Ixchel was proud, in that moment, to be a savage.

“I…hope we are of one mind on this?” the Grand Duchess offered.

“In times like these,” Ixchel purred as she danced closer. They were hip to hip now, “it’s hard to tell friend from foe, is it not, Your Grace?”

She noted the depth of Florianne’s breaths; this was not the woman’s dance, and adrenaline was not helping. “You are a curiosity to many, Inquisitor, and a matter of concern to some.”

“Am I the curiosity or the concern to you?” Ixchel asked.

Florianne did not answer, as they were swept apart. When they returned, Florianne changed tactics. “Have you yet carved a space for yourself in this evening? Have you decided who is friend or who is foe?”

Ixchel dipped her head, and a lock of her hair fell free. A deeply satisfied _ahhhh_ rose up from the sidelines. “I am an elf in Halamshiral,” Ixchel said, slightly more loudly. “No one has quite tried to put me in my place yet. For that, I am grateful.”

Florianne pursed her lips, though her nostrils flared with exertion. “Yes, how fortunate,” she said impatiently. “It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in dangerous machinations tonight.”

“‘Dangerous machinations’ is your national sport, Your Grace,” Ixchel retorted.

Florianne pulled Ixchel close. They stood still in the center of the dance floor.

“You have little time. The attack will come soon. You must stop Gaspard before he strikes! In the garden below the Royal Apartments, you will find the captain of my brother’s mercenaries.”

Ixchel tutted. She drew apart from Florianne and bowed.

“I see this dance has exhausted you,” she sighed. “Go rest, Grand Duchess. You have a long night ahead of you.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel hardly had a moment to herself before her advisers descended upon her. They pulled her out onto Briala’s empty balcony.

Josephine was positively giddy. “You’ll be the talk of the court for months! We should take you dancing more often.”

Leliana took the opportunity to reach over and carefully fix a smudge in Ixchel’s eyeliner. She nodded gratefully at her spymaster. “I do enjoy a break from fighting demons and horrors.” She paused. “Well, these ones are better dressed, at least.”

Josephine giggled. Cullen even chuckled. “Indeed.”

“What happened in the servants’ quarters?” Leliana asked. “We heard there was a fight.”

“There’s been fighting all night,” Ixchel replied. She gave them the quick summary of the large Tevinter infiltration force, and Solas and Fenris’s combined efforts to unite Briala’s people to thwart them.

“Well… I can’t tell if that’s good news,” Josephine admitted.

“It’ll take a month to get all the Venatori blood out of the marble,” Ixchel agreed.

“And it appears the peace talks are crumbling,” Leliana noted darkly.

“No wonder Briala felt like she could leave.” Ixchel shook her head. “Well, just so you know: it’s Florianne.”

Leliana nodded, her eye gleaming astutely. “She and her brother were thick as thieves as children, but she would give him up in an instant for her own gain.”

Cullen shook his head, as though he were both disappointed and not surprised in the least.

Ixchel held up a hand and began counting off her fingers: “I need to find Morrigan, because she was interrogating a Tevinter agent, and I suspect she has a key to the Royal Quarters. I need to blackmail Gaspard, and I need to talk to Celene, because they’re homicidal _pricks,”_ Ixchel said under her breath. Her eyes drifted off to the right. She added, “And I need to rescue Cassandra from the Prince of Starkhaven.”


	64. So Cries the Herald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let Me Out - Gorillaz ft. Mavis Staples & Pusha T
> 
> 11/28/20

Before Leliana or Josephine could protest, Ixchel swept away, jingling and burning as she did. She approached the Prince and her own Princess and curstied so deeply it made her ankles tremble.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, somewhat more calmly than Ixchel had anticipated, “this is Prince Vael, of Starkhaven."

"Lady Lavellan,” Sebastian said, and Ixchel was immediately warmed by the familiar Starkhaven accent. He was a handsome man, simultaneously lithe and broad-shouldered, fair and ruddy, fine-boned and a clearly capable warrior. He was dressed in white and gold, not unlike herself, but trimmed with more furs as might be expected from a northern man in the south. He bowed, hand extended for her own. She gave it freely, but the talons seemed to give him pause…only for a second. He kissed her knuckles, then released her. “It is an honor, Your Worship.”

“The feeling is mutual, my friend,” she replied.

“Ah, yes, we are friends, aren’t we?” He turned a brilliant smile upon her. “It is nice to see—and hear—another Free Marcher amid all these Orlesian cats. I saw that the Duke of Wycome was here as well. Doesn’t Clan Lavellan usually spend this season near the city?”

Ixchel’s smile faltered, and Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “I’m concerned that the Duke has a red lyrium problem,” Ixchel said. “I’m afraid he has a Venatori problem, too. And I am _certain_ that the Duke has a Chevalier problem.” She shrugged at Sebastian slowly. “I wish I could speak to him, to ease my worries about the safety of the clan, but I have not seen him this night.”

Sebastian’s jaw set more firmly, and he glanced at Cassandra.

“That is actually what we have been discussing,” the Seeker said. “Prince Vael has seen what red lyrium did to Kirkwall. Now he fears that it could be used as a terrorist weapon against civilians.”

Ixchel frowned. “By Corypheus? I doubt the Red Templars would waste such precious fuel. They might _kidnap_ civilians as I saw in Sahrnia, to feed more red lyrium—”

Sebastian bowed his head. “I’ve been told to trust that you are more than a match for the so-called Elder One,” he said. “I am far more concerned with what other malcontents might think to do with such a terrible invention.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Prince Vael witnessed the start of the Mage Rebellion in Kirkwall.”

Ixchel felt herself grow cold immediately. _Creators_ , she should have asked Fenris how to deal with this man. She bit her tongue, then nodded. “Has the Seeker spoken to you of our efforts in eastern Ferelden?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been hung up on the company you’ve kept,” Sebastian said. “A Magister of the Imperium whispers in your ear, they say. You didn’t _conscript_ the Rebel Mages—you _freed_ them, and the Templars within your ranks are told not to watch them? I hope you can understand why my mind dwells on such a matter.”

Ixchel’s muscles were loose and limp, unresponsive. She could not gather herself into a more diplomatic picture. Her tongue was all she had, and she worried it would turn traitor. She spoke slowly, then. “Do you know what this Magister speaks of, Your Majesty? He speaks of an end to blood magic in Tevinter. He speaks against their corruption, their unconscionable society. He came here to fight for a better Tevinter—first against Corypheus, and then…one day against his own countrymen, on the Magisterium’s floor.”

She nodded to herself. Perhaps, so far so good; Sebastian seemed willing to hear her out, and she was glad for it.

“As to your other point… Yes. The Mages in the Inquisition are free—free as anyone other agent to murder or spy or defect. That is the mortal way, isn’t it? Anyone could be a double-agent. Anyone could have a violent fit one day. So far, so good. And I am confident, too, that our former-Templars are focused on the current threats, not imagined ones,” she said, testing the waters.

Just as she feared, Sebastian drew his shoulders back. “Magic is always a threat,” he replied. “Mages dance closer than most to falling into the Void. That is their role as the Maker’s gifted children. They must lead by example: refrain from power, pride, and danger. They of course must be _kept_ to that path—such is the price they pay for their glory.”

Ixchel’s eyebrows shot up. “Let me address _that_ ,” she said harshly. “That is a pretty mindset, Prince Vael, but it speaks to personal responsibility, and faith. That is _not_ what Circles represent.”

“And what do they represent, Your Worship, if not vigilance and walking the Maker’s path?” Sebastian’s blue, blue eyes were sharp as a diamond-tipped blade, and she felt just as threatened.

“Circles are a thesis on the mortal heart, Your Majesty. Perhaps as a devoted brother, you might understand better than others how small, and fleeting mortals are,” she said. “The world is a terrifying and chaotic place. We desire control above all else, and that is how power becomes its own master: through fear of loss. So many of the norms in our societies, then, are about reinforcing control—using cruelty as a tool, and forgetting compassion along the way.”

Her hands were shaking at her sides, she knew, but she was numb; she could not clench her fists, could not clasp them. Soon her whole body might shake itself apart, and wouldn’t that be a grand diversion for the ball?

“We give people power, because it is a comfort to know someone has control over a situation—for magic, it is Templars; in war, it is generals; in peace, it is princes and diplomats.”

Sebastian nodded. “Andraste said, ‘the Maker is king in the heavens, but it is the kings of Thedas who must recreate His worldly glory.’”

“Yes, but what about the little kings?” she asked. “What about the Knight-Captains? What about the husbands? What about the guild leaders? What about the local Chevalier?”

“Power must be leashed,” Sebastian said. “It must have the Light of the Maker as its guide.”

Ixchel paused. “Is that what you think Mages seek? Power?” She shook her head vehemently. “They want _safety_ , Prince Vael, same as anyone else. No one wants to live in fear. Everyone wants a life free of abuse.”

“Of course, Mages are people,” Sebastian agreed. “It is wrong for anyone to be treated with cruelty. But—”

Ixchel’s knees wavered. She took a small step. “Do the institutions support and reinforce that idea? Because what seems to have happened is that you tell the Templars that the Mages are a threat they need to control, but the Templars cede their consciences to the ones who hold _their_ leashes…and too often, that means that _no one’s_ conscience is involved when cruelty is used to maintain control.”

She spread her hands out around her. “ Mages, merely by a fluke of their blood, are chained to their abusers. Where can the abused go when their pleas fall on ears deafened by comfort, the need for control, and excessive, concentrated power? What happens when responsibility is shunted up and up and up until there are no consequences for the ones holding everyone’s leashes? What happens is that cruelty becomes the status quo, and those in power are _faulted_ for any change—even good ones.”

Sebastian’s lips were pressed in a thin, pale line in the center of his face.

Ixchel waited.

“Then we should give them tools for change,” he relented. “But not…not like this!”

She had seen Anders’s name on his lips, but even here, it seemed he was wary of dropping it.

Ixchel bowed her head. “I agree,” she said. “I don’t agree with terrorism, Sebastian. Just like I don’t stand for cruelty. That is why I am _here_ , and not in the alienage building barricades. I have been given several titles that allow me—a ‘knife-ear’ savage—”

The Prince winced.

“—to stand tall in front of the leaders of our societies and hold them accountable. But if I had not been so _unlucky_ as to end up sucked into the Fade, given this mark, and been labeled as the Elder One’s rival…what recourse would remain for the powerless of this world? No human with power, in the court or in the Chantry, has been willing to threaten their own power in order to listen to the valid complaints of Circle Mages or ‘knife-ears.’”

She raised her face back to his. “Even as the Herald of Andraste, even with the full military and political might of the Inquisition at my back, even with rebels waiting on my word— _even now,_ the _only_ reason I have a hope to be _heard_ is because the foundation on which this part of your society was founded has been exploded to bits.”

Ixchel sighed. “Our invitation did not come from Celene. It did not come from Gaspard. It did not come from Briala. We are considered heretics by many in the Chantry. No one wants to hear what we have to say, Your Majesty. No one wants to do what is right, just because it is right. That is the travesty of the mortal heart. Until we have a society that _doesn’t actively punish_ the just, and the righteous…it will remain this way.”

She lifted a hand weakly in his direction. “I proselytize to you this way because I have it on good word that you are a good man, Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven.”

Sebastian sucked in a breath. His eyes searched hers honestly and critically, and she was reminded of Alistair, in that moment. Behind Sebastian’s bright, lyrium-blue eyes, was an idealist who had been cast out into the cold and had not quite gotten used to warmth again. “You have given me much to consider, Your Worship,” he said at last. “What have you done about eastern Ferelden, then?”

Ixchel glanced at Cassandra. “A group of former-First Enchanters were able to rescue and recruit most of the cell out from under the leaders. They were young and idealistic and had, I think, been afraid that there were no other options. We asked them to trust us, and they’ve been recruited. The fanatical leaders as I understand it were too convinced of themselves and have been neutralized. They await my judgment at Skyhold.”

The Prince continued to hold her gaze. “As long as there are fanatics, there will always be danger.”

Ixchel gave him an agreeable nod. “And as long as there is fear, we will have leaders, and as long as they are given power, they will seek to grow it. I believe at that point, faith must guide us.” She looked to Cassandra. “The virtues we hold dear are _not_ unobtainable by mortals. Charity, Compassion… They are not the sole domain of the holy. And we should not let each other forget that.”

“It is the Light of the Maker in each of us,” Cassandra said. “But it must be fed for it to remain alive. We are each called to be a beacon, for the world. _Each_ of us. Mage. Templar. The lay faithful…every mortal.”

“The Maker has a place for everyone,” Sebastian agreed. He smoothed back his fine auburn hair and sighed. “You’ve—”

“Given you a lot to think about?” Cassandra offered wryly. “She does that.”

“That’s why they call me Herald. I just talk…and talk…and talk…” Ixchel nearly slumped with relief as Sebastian chuckled and smiled at her. She bowed. “I do apologize.”

Sebastian surprised her by reaching out and clasping her by the shoulder to straighten her up. “I’m sure Varric has recorded many of the sermons I gave to my friends in Kirkwall,” he said, grinning. “Blessed Andraste…my faith in the life to come has never faltered, but my faith in my fellows has been sorely tested.”

“It is easier to cast it aside,” Cassandra agreed. “To put faith in mankind…it is a trial, every day, for the whole of our lives.”

Sebastian’s smile faded. “Yes. Yes it is. The Maker gave us free will, and Maferath in his treachery showed us that men were not yet worth saving. Perhaps we never will be.” He reflected on his words for a long moment. “Perhaps that is what allows the righteous to reach the Maker with such glory. It is a war with oneself, against cynicism…”

“Hope,” Ixchel’s gaze drifted down Sebastian’s gilded form to his shining boots, to the marble beneath. Just like Imshael at the end, the cracks and seams between the marble tiles had been filled in with gold. She frowned. “Hope is a choice made easier by belief.”

The Prince of Starkhaven nodded. “I am glad, Your Worship, to have finally made your personal acquaintance. I…have not decided if it has put my mind at ease, but I am glad nonetheless. I shan’t monopolize your attentions any longer.”

He bowed graciously and kissed her hand once more before loping off.

Cassandra groaned. “Please don’t tell me you have been off fighting Venatori while I have been dealing with Chantry bootlickers.”

Ixchel stared at her, and something in her face must have alerted Cassandra, because the Seeker reached for her by the waist and held her firmly. “You are doing very well, I think. I am not as well-versed in the language of fashion and culture and patronage as Leliana or Josephine, but…it sounds like your encounter with Gaspard’s messenger to the Council has caused some stir.”

Ixchel chuckled under her breath. “Sure. Who knows what that means?” She sighed and put her hands on Cassandra’s forearms, appreciating her steady companion in that moment.

“That was a difficult conversation to have with Prince Vael,” Cassandra said after a pause. “I remember hearing of his fury after what happened in Kirkwall. It has tested him. But I believe he is a good man.”

Ixchel looked up at Cassandra and gave her a coy smile. “Says the future Divine?” she teased. “I hope that many good men will hear us out as he did, then.” She lowered her voice. “Regardless, we’ll need to see what we can do to help him with the red lyrium in the area. And with Celene and Gaspard, after all this is over. It sounds like they’ve both foregone the normal lyrium providers and are supplying their forces with the red stuff.”

Cassandra gritted her teeth, then forcibly eased her expression into a less harsh one. “I don’t even want to think about how useful that could be, if the night goes the way you want. I don’t like to associate ‘useful’ with such terrible news.” She sighed. “Not that I really know what is useful—or anything.” She looked up at the ceiling desperately. “You make decisions that shake the world, yet always seem so assured. I wish I had your confidence.”

Ixchel bowed her head again. “Cassandra…”

“No. Truly. How many could do what you have done?” Cassandra shook her a little. “You were a prisoner, accused and reviled, yet you’ve emerged from every trial victorious. The Maker’s grace does not make you immortal. You live or die by your own hand. That is worthy of admiration.”

Her choice of words struck a chord in Ixchel. One that _hurt_. She wished that she wasn’t aware of the fact that they had an audience, for she wanted to throw herself in Cassandra’s arms and weep while simultaneously heaping praise on the woman. She could do only one of those things. “And I admire you, Lady Pentaghast,” she declared firmly, though her cheeks and ears were certainly red. “I admire your romantic heart. Only fools declare it to be the domain of weak women—because I see it in you as the most courageous passion. How you’re swept away by the pursuit of an ideal. What is not to admire about that?”

Cassandra smiled at her, and Ixchel genuinely wondered if the Seeker knew they were being listened to, that every word she spoke was intended for two separate audiences.

Regardless, it seemed that Cassandra was happy, and Ixchel was happy for that.

“Like Andraste long ago, once again the Fate of Thedas will be determined by a woman.” Cassandra closed her eyes with the feeling. “It makes me proud to know you. We still have a long road to travel, Inquisitor. Wherever it takes us, I am glad you’re here.”

Ixchel blinked rapidly to avoid ruining her painted face, and she nodded. “And I you,” she said. “Thank you for your efforts tonight, Cassandra. I’m told you’ve been touching many hearts. But have you been filling your stomach?” She gave Cassandra a weak smile. “I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

While they went to gorge themselves expeditiously on finger foods, Ixchel briefed Cassandra on the night’s events thus far: the injured servant, the murders in the servants’ quarters, the Venatori presence en force, and her personal encounters with members of the court. Cassandra likewise summarized her own diplomatic endeavors. The question of, ‘how free are the Free Mages really’ had come up quite often, it seemed. Cassandra had also heard some reports from Varric, and in addition to what she herself had overheard, it seemed that the night was going well—at least concerning Cassandra and showcasing what her rule as Divine might prioritize.

“I _really_ need to figure out how to convince everyone I don’t want a crown,” Ixchel breathed unhappily.

“If it comes down to it, I would stand beside you while you shout it from the rooftop,” Cassandra offered.

Ixchel nearly choked on a sweet cheese pastry. “Thanks,” she muttered around her mouthful. She washed it down with champagne. “Well. Off again to save the world. Thank you, Cassandra.” She gave the Seeker’s arm a squeeze. “If you’re tired of the chitchat, you might be able to save Cullen from being accosted with any more marriage proposals.”

“Wha— _really?”_ Cassandra’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, I must witness this.”

Ixchel brought her glass and plate to the station where cutlery was being collected—as opposed to handing it off to an elven servant—but while she was there, she took the opportunity to inquire with the waitstaff after her companions in the courtyard.

“They have returned to the guest wing, Your Worship,” a servant replied. “No one else has been injured. We have not found any more of the Tevinter agents on that side of the palace.”

Ixchel smiled. “That’s a relief to hear. Thank you for what you’ve done.”

The elf’s eyes widened slightly, and she bowed. “Thank you,” she replied.

Ixchel went to the vestibule in search of her other companions, and she found Vivienne striding towards her. “My dear,” she said curtly, and Ixchel knew to follow the mage without question. Vivienne led her to a crowded window, then turned in a flutter of skirts. “Have you eaten?” was the first question out of the First Enchanter's mouth.

Ixchel nodded, mystified.

“Good. Good. I feared you had thrown yourself so wholeheartedly into this dance that you might forget such an important step in the Game.” Vivienne sparkled at her. “Not fainting, that is.”

The Inquisitor chuckled. “Yes, I’ve had my share of pastries and little sausages now.”

Vivienne smiled briefly. “I have done my reconnaissance, spoke to Lady Nightingale and Lady Montilyet.” There was something almost pitying in her tone that rankled Ixchel—something tight and fabricated about her smile. “We fear that with the amount of Venatori moving in the wings, there might not be time enough to accomplish all you set out to do. The religious angle has worked in your favor. Everyone is certainly talking about the morals the Herald, her Inquisition, and the candidate for Divine espouse…quite favorably, in fact. But perhaps it has only fed the rumor that you are playing the game for the throne.”

Ixchel felt her teeth ache from how hard her jaw flexed. “What do you believe I need to do, Madame de Fer?”

At this, Vivienne _slouched_ against the sill of the large bay window beside them. The moonlight hit her just-so, causing the dust on her cheeks to sparkle. She cut her eyes at Ixchel and toyed with her rings. “I admit it took me longer than I had hoped to come up with a plan of action, given your constraints…self-imposed as they may be.” Vivienne gave her a sharp smirk. “You will need to rub shoulders with some Chevaliers, my dear."


	65. Interruptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/29/20

“I’m going to need another drink,” Ixchel muttered. “How will this help dispel the rumor that I want to be Empress? Am I trying to recruit the Usurper’s forces?”

Vivienne glanced down, then flicked her lashes back up at Ixchel. “Do trust me, Your Worship,” she suggested.

The Inquisitor gritted her teeth and nodded.

Vivienne held her gaze for a moment longer, then lifted her chin. “Your agents have been focused on a message of unity that transcends the court—but there has been very little talk about the threat of the Breach, the Veil, the Elder One. That is not to say you have not played the Game well. In fact, if you had not performed to the highest standard, what I suggest would not work. But—if you, the _Dalish savage,_ are seen speaking to both Gaspard and Celene's Chevaliers, it will utterly shut down the idea that you seek any Orlesian title at all. Because you are too _good_ to make such a politically suicidal move."

Vivienne waved a hand. “ _These_ Chevaliers will never follow an elf, no matter how pious they may be. This will prove that are trying to muster political support _writ large_ to face the Elder One. After all, he will not disappear simply because he fails at this assassination party trick. You have been convincing enough tonight that your _earnestness_ will not be doubted. At least, not _very_ much.”

Ixchel looked out through the crowd as she considered Vivienne’s words. When Bull had pressed her on the matter of sparing the vicious Chevalier on the Exalted Plains, what Ixchel hadn’t mentioned was that it was easy to do so because she did not need to bash her head against the Chevalier’s prejudices outside of the battle. The knight had simply taken their racism and ran. Actually speaking to a Chevalier and smiling through their comments about her ears, her savage ways, her people, her body, her _worth_ as a living being… Frankly, that was another matter entirely.

She wasn’t sure if she was good enough at the Game to steer conversations away from such fraught topics. But the topics she had in mind were no less _difficult_.

She needed to convince the military leaders that she understood how frustrated they were, fighting the petty squabbles of a Civil War. It wouldn't even be very difficult, for the Orlesian Civil War had touched every living being in Orlais, she knew. Everyone had lost a loved one, or lost property to a battalion—friend and foe alike. Families had been torn apart, and homes, and honor. And for what? For _Gaspard’s_ pride. Certainly, the most warmongering of Gaspard’s Chevaliers wished to see more of combat…but combat against worthy opponents. Against _Ferelden_. Fighting Celene’s forces was necessary, but distasteful to all. And Celene’s Chevaliers certainly felt the same, if not more intensely.

More than that, she knew that the soldiers must feel that their leaders had failed them. The commanding officers must feel that they were failing their people by keeping up the pretenses of the conflict. She knew, because as a commander, she had felt that way _even_ after her decisive victory at Adamant. In the aftermath, with the truth about the Wardens come to light, her forces—and she herself—had wondered _what were they fighting for anyway?_

She knew the same applied to the Orlesian forces because she had heard them, Marshalls and foot soldiers alike, discussing such matters: unacceptable body counts, needless exposure, tactless moves, and, most of all, the failures and abandonment upon the Exalted Plains.

Ixchel nodded to herself. “I’m going to need another drink,” she repeated, “but I trust you, Lady Vivienne.”

Vivienne hummed, as pleased as the cat that caught the canary. “I might recommend taking reinforcements—though not Commander Cullen. I fear he might not be able to restrain himself if your honor is besmirched.”

“I’ll get Bull and…” She looked around. “Cassandra. Sign of unity. And maybe they won’t take knives to my ears in front of the future Divine.”

For the first time in a long time, Vivienne’s severe expression softened. She looked down and contemplated her nails for a moment. Then, she looked up at Ixchel. “I know,” she said. “I have faith in you, Inquisitor. Let us find you that drink.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel walked with Bull back to the ballroom to seek out the Seeker, but before she could go far, Morrigan approached. Ixchel nodded at Bull to continue on, and Ixchel turned to meet the witch.

“My Lady,” she said with a newly-refreshed smile. Her small meal had finally started to raise her flagging energy. Unfortunately, she knew she had a long night ahead. “How have your fortunes fared this evening?”

Morrigan offered her a weary smile of her own. “Take a turn with me, Your Worship,” she asked. They set off on a circuit around the ballroom and left fluttering fans in their wakes, the Witch of the Wilds and the Herald of Blessed Andraste Herself.

“I have had varying success,” Morrigan said. “The…guest…that you saw in my office has offered me no leads on how he had obtained his invitation to the ball. I had warned Her Radiance ahead of time of the Elder One’s interest in the Orlesian chaos—and as I’m sure the Valmonts communicated, the Empress was willing to assist your fight against Corypheus after her throne could be secured. Now, however, she has proof of the Tevinter infiltration, and she would like to speak to you directly, My Lady.”

Ixchel nodded. “Fine.”

Morrigan raised one eyebrow but continued on. “So how have you fared? As _my_ guest, ‘twould be remiss of me not to ask.”

Ixchel glanced at a group of Chevaliers who had headed out onto a nearby balcony and made note of their colors for later. “There were far more Venatori than I anticipated, but we had also anticipated that. Does that make sense?” She laughed darkly. “I could anticipate that they would send more men, if they knew I was expecting them. But what else? _What else?_ As far as I know, none of my agents, or you, or even Lady Nightingale have heard whispers of anything else out of place. I have such a bad feeling about that silence.”

She nodded at the Dowager as they passed by. Gaspard’s vassal to the Council of Heralds had been thoroughly ensnared in the Dowager’s endless recitation of her many husbands and their varied deaths, but he seemed to prefer it to dealing with Gaspard.

Morrigan’s dark countenance turned thoughtful. “Do you have any leads on the traitor in our midst?”

“Oh, yes.” Ixchel blinked. “Yes, I have a good idea. Needs more evidence before we can act on it. I…wouldn’t allow anyone within arms’ reach of Celene for the rest of the night, Lady Morrigan.”

“Duly noted.” Morrigan turned her golden eyes on Ixchel warily. “But you shan’t tell me your suspicions?”

Ixchel shook her head. “I’d rather you eyed everyone with suspicion still,” she offered. “Maybe you’ll see something I’ve missed in my more targeted search.”

Morrigan sighed, clearly displeased. “Well, Your Worship… I shall deliver you to Celene and allow you to continue your hunt. _Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel.”_

Ixchel laughed again, sharply. _“’Ma serannas,”_ she replied, and she dipped into a low curtsy with Morrigan, for they had arrived at Celene’s private balcony.

“Ah, thank you Lady M,” Celene said. Morrigan took her leave swiftly, seemingly vanishing into smoke as she passed the doorway o Gaspard’s balcony—no doubt to remind the Usurper that he never knew when he was being watched or not. Ixchel looked back at Celene to find her face drawn and concerned.

“Inquisitor. I regret that we did not have time to speak earlier. I am told you have had quite the productive night, playing the Grand Game in the party, and behind the scenes.”

Ixchel went to lean on the railing and kept her eyes on the doors. “Indeed,” she said. “I’m glad we’ve found a moment to talk. My reputation as an earnest woman should precede me, I think, so I will be frank: I have no interest in the Orlesian throne. It’s a ridiculous rumor. I will do my best to dispel it once you and I are done here.” She inclined her head to Celene. “I hope you believe me.”

“I…I might, Your Worship.” Celene laced her fingers together, then unlaced them, and she drew closer. “It is not lost on me that many of my actions to retain the loyalty of my court have directly harmed the loyalty of my people. I cannot begrudge them for fixing their eyes on a rising star.”

Ixchel searched Celene’s gaze and found it just as weary as her voice sounded—and a tad rueful. Ixchel felt the night grow very still as she stared down an Empress, and something swelled in her chest. It felt like hope betrayed, but she knew it was partly misplaced. Last time she had stood here and held out Briala’s locket, Ixchel’s advisers hadn’t thought it necessary to tell her that Celene had burned the Halamshiral alienage…and Briala hadn’t told her, either. Ixchel had had hope for Briala and Celene’s future.

And then she had learned the truth, and she had felt betrayed by her people, her friends, Briala—and Celene most of all, for raising her hopes in the first place. Not much had come of Briala’s title, in the years after Corypheus’s fall. Partly, Ixchel thought, Celene and Briala were to blame for the ease with which Solas had recruited Thedas’s elves to his cause.

Going into this night, she had had _no_ such hopes. The best thing in the short term for the elves would be for the faithful of the Chantry, these mid-tier nobles and Chevaliers, each of whom employed many servants, to think twice before they uttered a slur or raised their hand against an elf in their service. Ixchel had seen the crack in the foundation of their society, and everything she had done and said this evening had been a chisel into that crack to pry open the heart of Theodosian culture. In the days and months and years to come, she and Cassandra would work with that atrophied muscle and heal it, fill it with the compassion it had long forgotten.

Ixchel stared at the Empress coldly. Perhaps Celene expected that, by disavowing her supposed aspirations to the Orlesian throne, Ixchel was divorcing herself from the people of the alienage here in Halamshiral, and the downtrodden across Orlais. If Celene still only thought of her actions, and their consequences, in terms of the Game—a larger Game than the one of the court, but still a Game, a dance… If Celene held no remorse for the massacre on her hands, then Ixchel would be remiss to trust the Empress at all. There could be no future in which Ixchel wouldn’t continue speaking for the alienages, and the serving class, and positioning herself as the one they should look to as a leader.

But there was something in Celene’s eyes, as the two women stared at one another and contemplated the state of the Game before them. It tugged at Ixchel.

The Inquisitor drew Briala’s locket out of her wrist purse, and she turned it over in her hands as she continued to watch Celene’s face. The Empress, who was already as pale as alabaster or the finest porcelain, had turned ashen at the sight of it.

“I took this to keep it from Gaspard,” Ixchel said. “Tell me about Briala’s locket, Celene.”

“She gave it to me for my coronation,” Celene said, her voice barely above a breath. “I don’t know why I kept it. It was a foolish thing to do.”

“Why did she leave your side?” Ixchel pressed.

“She wanted change. And she thought I should deliver it,” Celene said. “My word is law, Inquisitor. But laws don’t command people’s hearts. Culture does not transform itself overnight…”

Celene drew a sharp breath. Grief slowly blossomed across her face, visible even beneath the fine mask; Celene’s last internal defense against her own guilt had shattered, for how could it stand when that was _Ixchel's entire game?_ Whatever kernel of truth there might be in Celene’s words about how difficult it might have been to enact change, it wasn’t enough to make up for how _very_ little she had done for Briala, and for the elves. And it certainly did not make up for the irrevocable harm she had done by reinforcing the status quo by burning Halamshiral.

“No one is powerful enough to accuse you of crimes against your people,” Ixchel said bitterly. “There is no Divine to reprimand you or seek your confession. So tell me then, honestly.”

Celene’s back straightened. Her hands curled into fists at her side. There was a fire kindled in her now, and it burned in her voice as she declared, “I failed her." And so, Celene confessed.

“I thought that I was doing my duty, putting the good of all the people of my empire above the interests of my lover. But my actions told the people of my empire that I would sacrifice them to satisfy a select few. I see that now, Inquisitor. I do.” Celene’s jaw flexed as she tried to compose herself. “I…would ask that you return the locket to me. As small a consequence as it seems...this symbol of my loss will be a suitable reminder of my failure to Orlais.”

Ixchel tightened her grip on the locket. Her hand was shaking.

“But what did you _do_ , Celene?” Ixchel demanded.

Another flicker of grief, mixed with panic, passed over Celene’s face—then it was gone, and the Empress’s double-thick mask of composure was back. “I denied the elves of the alienage justice, recompense, or reparation for crimes done against them," she said curtly. "And I sent my forces to massacre them all. Your Worship.”

Ixchel extended her arm, and she dropped the locket into Celene’s hands. “Never forget it,” she told the Empress. “Your people will not. I will not. And neither will _she."_

Celene breathed deeply through her nose—the only sign of her heightened emotions in that moment.

“I need the key to the royal wing and apartments,” Ixchel said. “We’ve cleared out a small Tevinter army from the lower wings and servants’ quarters, and averted a massacre. I need to secure the other side.”

Celene’s head dipped. “Ah… Inquisitor…”

“I know about Gaspard’s missing man.” Ixchel’s blood pumped in her ears; how much time was she losing? “I know you’re feeding red lyrium to your battlemages. Whatever you could possibly want to hide from me isn’t worth having this threat continue.”

Celene immediately withdrew a key from deep within her gown. “I cede this match, Inquisitor,” she said stiffly.

Ixchel nodded. “I will go assure your court that you are the rightful Empress, and what not. Thank you.”

“Please do.”

Ixchel curtsied and fled the balcony—only to immediately head to Briala’s.

“Two things,” Ixchel said as she cornered the Ambassador. “No, three.”

“I will hear you out,” Briala allowed.

“I need your people to help me secure the royal wing,” Ixchel said. “Have you sent anyone in there already? I suspect that you, as I do, believe it to be a perilous place tonight.”

“Not—” Briala stopped herself, eyes narrowed at Ixchel. “No.”

Ixchel gave her a look. “If you sent someone in there…it would be because you wanted them to die. What will we find in there, Briala?”

“I have done no such thing,” Briala said. “And I will not now.”

The Inquisitor glanced at the doors, then drew further out onto the balcony. “Second thing. Do you want to be Marquise of the Dales?”

Briala’s nostrils flared. “I do not know how you think you can say such a thing with any confidence,” she said venomously. “Celene would never—”

“Third thing,” Ixchel interrupted, “is that Celene kept your locket.”

Briala went silent. She shrank back momentarily, and then she turned to look out across the gardens. “Why?” she asked. It was a grave, and simple question, but it took all of Ixchel’s strength to answer it honestly.

“She kept it because she still loves you, Briala,” she said. She immediately doubted whether this was the right course—but she couldn't stop now. “I came across it tonight and knew I couldn’t let it fall into Gaspard’s hands. I had…a discussion with Celene, and she asked for it back.”

Briala sucked a breath in sharply through her teeth. “Tch! Sentiment alone? What a fool. I thought she were smarter than that.”

A breeze was picking up in the night, and it stirred the pyrophite shards hanging from Ixchel’s skirts. They fluttered and tinkled delicately, underscoring her gentle words: “No, Briala. She wants it to punish herself.”

“For my lost loyalty?”

“For the massacre. The lives lost. Her apathy. Her lack of effort in furthering relations with elves, as well as for setting them back again.” Ixchel took a moment to breathe and closed her eyes. “I gave it back to her. I believe she’s repentant. What I don’t know, _Ambassador_ , is whether the rights of the powerless in Orlais are truly her priority.”

Briala was silent, and Ixchel opened her eyes to see the elf's grip on the balcony railing tighten.

“I don’t know if they’re your priority, either, to be honest,” Ixchel said. “But I want to think they are. I want to think that together, you’d try. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t.” She paused, because she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to beg Briala.

Ixchel then reached into her hair and unlaced one scarlet embrium blossom form her braid. “I don’t want to ask for favors. If you want the title, I can tell you what has to happen in order for you to get it tonight.”

She held out the flower.

Briala turned to see the offering, and she looked across at Ixchel with untrusting eyes.

Ixchel's posture wilted ever-so-slightly, but she should have expected this. “You need to help me, either by sending some of your people with me or by coming yourself, when I go to face whatever threat lies in the royal wing. There will be an unmasking. Whatever happens next, I will tell Celene you aided me, and ask that you be rewarded. She might ask you why you helped her, and you can answer that how you like.” Ixchel’s brow eased a little. “The past is out of our control, Briala, but the future is in our hands right now.”

Briala took the embrium blossom.

“I will join you personally,” Briala said. “I will wait for your signal.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel found Bull and Cassandra awaiting her. “The Iron Bull has briefed me,” Cassandra said tersely, and handed her a crystal tumbler of what seemed to be fine whiskey.

The Inquisitor took a steadying sip. “We’ll start here, with the good Sers of Celene’s on this side balcony. There are a couple of enlisted men in the ballroom as well. Then we’ll go to the Hall of Heroes, before returning to the vestibule. Then, I fear we’ll be pressing our luck with whatever might be planned by our enemies. There can't be much time left. Is it hot in here?”

Bull rolled his tongue across his teeth. “You should send someone in there, Champ,” he said.

“Champ?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You look like the sun right now, thought ‘Sunshine’ was too obvious.”

“I like it.”

She took another sip. “You're right. I’ll be right back,” she said. “After that, we can’t waste anymore time. Don’t let me dawdle.”

Ixchel dipped out of the ballroom and glided away in search of Solas. This time, she found him in a dark corner of the guest wing. He was standing loosely at attention as most of the serving elves did when they were trying to be ignored by the patrons of the night, but the moment Ixchel entered the room, her eyes were drawn to him by the self-satisfied smirk and dark gleam in his eye. Her mouth immediately went dry.

Nothing about his posture changed when she approached. His gaze grew half-lidded as he looked down at her, daring her closer, and she obeyed. They stood far too close for a servant and the Herald of bloody Andraste, but Ixchel was drawn to him by some magnetism that scared and thrilled her.

She held her whiskey in her left hand, with the Anchor, and held it up and slightly to the side with her elbow supported in the crook of her hip. She drew her other arm across herself, almost protectively, to rest her hand in her elbow. Weight all on one side, flat-footed—she dared him, too, to make a move.

She noted now how _similarly_ they were dressed. There was no mistaking her as anything but a figure of almost deific importance, yet he was so clearly dressed as a servant. She supposed it might have been his collar—Vivienne had been right to avoid one in Ixchel’s own outfit, and for his part, Solas had chosen the most collar-looking gorget imaginable. Yet now that they stood beside one another, and she looked him up and down, she couldn’t help but think that they were so very clearly a pair. He did not look the servant beside her. He wore his simplicity with elegance and grandeur; he was a leader in his own right. The confident, knowing air he projected seemed less out-of-place, then, when he was matched with her.

They gazed upon each other, and she wondered if _he_ knew that _she_ viewed him as a potentially hostile power whose services she needed. For she indeed needed his services, and she was, in fact, afraid that in his long absence he had set plans in motion that would ultimately oppose her own.

“I do adore picking apart the web of lies, sex, and murder that tie these events together,” he remarked at last. His lilting and untraceable accent lingered darkly on each word, and the corner of his mouth tipped upward in a more honest smile. “Have you gotten caught up in it, Inquisitor? Or have you untangled it all already?”

“The goal is to have it all wrapped around my finger, isn’t it?” she mused. She turned her head pointedly at her glass. “I can’t dally. I have some Chevaliers to commiserate with.”

Solas chuckled. “I see now why you’re partaking of the stiffer stuff.”

She swirled her glass. “Two things, before I run,” she said. “Have the lower quarters been pacified?”

“Quite. Our new friends seem well-equipped now to face whatever might wander in that direction.”

“This is too easy.” She sighed; the shift in her posture sent her glass tingling, and her skirt swaying, and Solas’s eyes roaming. Ixchel did her best to ignore it. “I can’t believe that they only sent _a lot of people._ As if that would thwart us.”

“There was quite the militia,” Solas noted. “You did not see the full extent of their forces before you disappeared. It _could_ be that they thought it was enough.”

Ixchel shook her head. “I just have a bad feeling,” she murmured. “So the second thing: it would comfort me greatly to have you and Fenris go ahead of me to the royal wing. Once my work with the soldiers is done, the Ambassador and I will be headed that way. I imagine it is a dangerous place this evening, so try only to gather information and not be seen.”

“It will be done,” he replied quietly.

He surprised her by reaching out to tilt her chin up to look at him again. His touch burned, and the intensity of his gaze made her innards twist far too pleasantly for her own good. “There is more on your mind, _lethallan_ ,” he breathed as he inspected her features. “Are you nervous to speak with the knights and their knives?”

“Not very.” She whetted her lips with her tongue just so she could coax the slightest flicker of interest on his face. “I just…I regret we haven’t had a chance to speak before this. I’ve wanted to all night.”

His brow creased. “There may be time now?” he queried.

“There’s too much!” she protested. “Are you alright? Where did you go? Is Wisdom safe? Something has changed about you, and—”

Solas had started to look at her very fondly, and somewhat sadly, and it robbed Ixchel of any words she had remaining. His knuckle was still beneath her chin, and as she swallowed nervously, he shifted to cup her cheek in his wide, warm palm.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked in a whisper.

And then she took a step back. She drew her arms tighter around herself, causing the scales on her arms to rasp like the movements of a dragon itself. She let her eyes fall to his chest instead of his face, because the look he wore _hurt_. “That’s what’s on my mind, Solas,” she said. “As well as the stability of Orlais, and thwarting the Elder One, and establishing a new world order where Compassion is once again doctrine…” Ixchel took a deep breath, brow knit with concern and apology as she looked up at him. “I should go.”

He nodded, never taking his eyes from hers, even as he tucked his hands behind his back once more. “You have many important matters vying for your attention. Let me put one to rest.” He leaned forward, just slightly. “I am not upset with you, Ixchel.”

She responded immediately, eyes closed, earnest. “I trust you."

When she opened them, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nuva mar’shos’lahn’en ir’tel’dera Fen’Harel. - May the dread wolf never hear your footsteps  
> ‘Ma serannas - thank you


	66. More than one Way to Skin a Rabbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/29/20

Ixchel gave herself over to her duty.

She was not dressed in finery. She was not on a tight schedule. She was not the Herald of Andraste—she was not even an elf. She was a seasoned veteran of war, and she had dedicated herself to just causes, and she had ached when she doubted when that was true. She was a Champion.

The first few conversations were tense affairs. The more diplomatic among Celene’s Chevaliers, Marshals, and Lieutenants held ‘knife-ear’ in their mouths but said ‘rabbit’ instead; each time the slur was uttered, they glanced at Cassandra with a smile, seeking support—and found none. They knew that the slurs were cudgels used to keep the elves down, knew that even the mildest utterance carried intention and hurt behind it, and thus, when they found a severe and judgmental human eye, they knew they were in an arena where cruelty was not the name of the game. The conversation usually sobered up from there.

The less diplomatic began on the defensive, with preconceived ideas of what arguments she might make to sway them from the Empress’s cause. She diverted those with talk of Haven:

Had they known anyone at the Conclave? Had they had time to mourn those lost there, or mourn the loss of the Divine, in the midst of their Civil War?

Among Celene’s supporters, at least, she was usually able to set the tone well-enough.

Gaspard’s people were more skeptical of her, of course, and they were less amenable to the sentimental tactics. Instead, she spoke to them about the front on the Exalted Plains and led in to the combined threat of the Freemen, the Venatori, and Corypheus. Bull proved integral in those interactions for his ability to read each soldier and identify what their favored weapon was, what material it was made of, and which part of an enemy they favored striking. Ixchel wasn’t sure if it was the Ben-Hassrath in him or the mercenary captain, but she was glad of it nonetheless, because some men certainly just wanted to talk about their _blades_ , it seemed. She was happy to join in, but she could not initiate those conversations, given how gauche it sounded coming out of a woman’s mouth.

The spell broke at last when she met with Ser Honorine Chastain, who had come in attendance with Lady Solange Levesque, Celine’s former Ambassador to the Court of Nevarra. Former, because she had defected to Gaspard’s side out of her—and Nevarra’s—interest in an Orlesian-Tevinter war. Ixchel had anticipated a smoother opening than the rest, given Cassandra’s Nevarran roots and the promise of a Tevinter threat.

But Lady Solange was the war-monger of the pair. She was no warrior herself, and had no inherent respect for Ixchel’s military accomplishments, martial prowess, or veteran insights. No—Lady Solange enjoyed war for the spectacle, the pageantry, the thrill of finding an enemy and crushing them.

Ixchel needed to get Ser Honorine away from her.

“Ser,” she said, “do I recall correctly that you have heroes from the Fifth Blight in your family?”

Honorine—a man so solidly built he seemed nearly dwarven—chuckled. “Aye! Sometimes, you have to cross a border to fight for the glory and survival of Thedas. My third-cousin—”

“—dallied with _far_ too many of those dog lords while she was there,” Solange interjected under her breath.

Honorine’s face was pained. “I was _going_ to say, she fought alongside the Hero of Ferelden. Saw the damn Archdemon fall!” His eyes glittered. “Grew up on stories like that. They say an Archdemon flew over Haven, don’t they?”

“Aye,” Ixchel said gravely. “If it weren’t for my Commander’s expertly-calibrated trebuchets, I… Oh?” She smiled. “It seems we are mutual fans of trebuchets, then? Well, now I'm required to show you to the Commander.”

“I would be honored,” Honorine said, a tad too relieved to maintain his bluff.

Lady Solange clamped a hand down on his shoulder. “Ah, but I promised I would introduce you to _Antoine_ ,” she said loudly. Her other hand snaked out and plucked the Duke of Wycome from within a crowd. “See? He is right here. Can’t wait,” Solange said with an icy smile at Ixchel and Cassandra.

Cassandra let out a huffing breath through her teeth. “Ah, Duke Antoine,” she said. “It has been too long.” Clearly, it had not been long _enough_. “Herald, have you met the Duke of Wycome?”

Ixchel couldn’t get herself to smile. “No.”

The Duke was a thin man of such stature that he was doomed to _loom_ over any company except, perhaps, a Qunari. As it was, he seemed to have become permanently stooped, and even in Bull’s presence did not fix his posture. His dark, greasy goatee and mustache peeked out from beneath his dark silver mask, and his fur collar was pulled close and up to his jaw. Somehow, he seemed like he were trying to hide within his own shadow.

“It is such an honor, Your Worship,” he said. His voice slid out of his mouth like an oil-slick: pretty on the surface, but troubled below. “I must admit, I had been hoping to bend your ear earlier in the evening.”

“My heartfelt apologies, Your Grace,” Ixchel said. “I have found myself lost in the glamor of this crown jewel of palaces, and the glamor of the lords and ladies within it.” She curtsied, careful not to spill her glass.

He glanced at Solange and Honorine. He seemed out of his element here in the Game, and he struggled to keep up with the small talk when something else pressed on his mind. “Indeed…I have sometimes found myself entranced by the glitz as well.” He gave a short, false laugh. “Wycome has revelry enough, but never so gilded!”

“Ah, but your fields and plains have seen plenty of glory of their own kind,” Solange assured him. “Wycome itself was host to a grand Warden effort during the Fourth Blight, was it not?”

Antoine, with his hands clasped behind him, popped his elbows out like an ungainly fledgling as he bowed. “Indeed, indeed,” he repeated. “The Wardens took military insight from the Dalish aravels to evacuate the city before the darkspawn could attack. Quite ingenious.”

“It is a wonder, the innovations that occur when diverse minds come together,” Cassandra interjected quickly.

“Ah, but there is more than one way to skin a _rabbit_ ,” Solange said with a thin smile. “Plunder and _assimilation_ are the heart of the war effort.” She turned her gaze on Ixchel sharply. “The Herald is a perfect example of it. In my experience, they adopt shoes last.”

Ixchel’s skin crawled under her distasteful stare, and Honorine shifted uncomfortably beside her. “Ser Honorine,” Ixchel said quickly, eyes flicking to Bull. “I am afraid the Duke’s right. I do owe him this. Perhaps the Captain here can introduce you to my Commander, as I’ve promised?”

Ser Honorine bowed deeply. “I would much appreciate that, Your Worship.”

Bull nodded at her and led the Chevalier away, leaving Solange looking a little stranded. After a moment, she pursed her lips. “Well, Antoine?” she asked crossly.

The Duke looked supremely uncomfortable. His gaze dropped to Ixchel’s bare feet.

He stared for so long that Ixchel took a step back, out of range.

“Your Grace?” she asked cautiously.

Antoine shook himself. “Forgive me. It—it occurs to me that it was selfish to seek you out, when I could perhaps coordinate with your Ambassador. I sense that I interrupted something important, Lady Solange. I beg your forgiveness as well.”

He bowed to each of them—even Cassandra—and fled again into the crowd. The effort was somewhat ruined by his height.

Ixchel stared so intently in the direction he had left, that she did not notice Lady Solange make her excuses. “Marchers,” Solange muttered with disgust as she passed Ixchel.

“How strange,” Cassandra said. “And awkward. I wonder why the Duke came all the way from Wycome.”

Ixchel frowned. “Me too.”

When she had spoken to every military figure she could find in the ballroom, she moved to the Hall of Heroes—but she left Cassandra in the vestibule. She, at that point, was well-practiced with Gaspard’s people and dove into the threat—and her triumphs. The night had hit a lull, she knew, and the men were thirsty for a story to liven it up, so she sent them off to Cullen.

Partly, too, to help him fend off the more romantically-minded of his admirers.

Ixchel slipped in to the Trophy Room and gathered up all the incriminating evidence she could find under the glazed glass eyes of the taxidermy, and then slipped back out just as assuredly as she’d entered.

She rejoined Bull and Cassandra in the vestibule and continued their rounds.

But of course, in the end, she _was_ on a tight schedule, she _was_ dressed far too finely, she _was_ the Herald of Andraste, and she _was_ an elf. An elfy-elf, as someone might once have called her. Ixchel found, however, that, while her anxiety was only mounting at an exponential rate over the unaddressed threats in the royal wing, she felt far more confident and pleased with her performance among the knights of the Empire. She had guessed correctly that they were looking for more righteous causes than the egos of the throne—and even more than just dispel the rumors of her own aspirations, she felt that with her stories and insights, she had even earned some respect as a warrior and commander in her own right.

“Alright,” Ixchel said, raising her chin to signal Varric over as he finished a conversation nearby. “I’m going to fetch Briala and deliver my finds to Leliana. We’re headed in to the royal wing when I return. Prepare accordingly.”

On her last circuit of the ballroom, she spied Morrigan watchfully presiding in Celene’s shadow; Cullen was now entertaining Chevaliers and Ambassadors with tales of the Blighted Archdemon, no doubt; Josephine was no doubt negotiating some trade agreements with the most prestigious merchants in attendance; and Leliana was waiting for Ixchel.

“I have had only a little time, but I looked through as much of your findings as I could,” the Nightingale sang softly on her approach. “Gaspard hired mercenaries and smuggled in weapons for his Chevaliers, for a coup. Celene knows of it, and is trying to bait him into such a treacherous display. He of course threatened the Council of Heralds, quite more violently than is usually accepted in the Game. Briala forged documents from each of them, to implicate them both in selling out the Empire for personal gain, and she murdered the two diplomats Celene and Gaspard had sent to one another, hoping that they could bargain with each other while avoiding any deals with the elves.” Leliana tutted. “Such treachery. I love it.”

“But nothing on Corypheus, or the red lyrium…?”

Leliana shook her head. "Not at first glance. There are a few potential ciphers in here, but they will take time."

Ixchel sighed. “Alright. We’ll go find it all, then.”

“Be safe, Your Worship.”

As Ixchel moved to go, Leliana stepped closer to stop her. “And congratulations. You have the whole court hanging after your word now.”

“Night isn’t over yet,” Ixchel warned. “Thank you.”

She only had to walk by Briala’s balcony for the Ambassador to take action. Ixchel was surprised to see her climb up a set of vines and set off across the roof, but Ixchel wasn’t about to tarry longer. By the time Ixchel rejoined her companions outside the royal wing, Briala had appeared through a window with five more elves, armed with daggers.

Solas had left the door unlocked; the room beyond it was silent and cold, as though it had seen not a soul the entire night. Her squad moved in, and Varric chuckled as the door closed behind them.

“So even Leliana thinks this place is dangerous, we’re going in?” Bull asked.

“Seems like it. Hey, how drunk are you, Sunshine?” Varric asked.

Ixchel found her longsword leaning against the desk, and she held it at the ready. After a moment’s thought, she jingled some small halla statuettes in her palm and handed them off to Cassandra. “Alright,” she said softly, and Bull and Varric looked sufficiently contrite for their uncautious volume. “Solas and Fenris should have gone ahead already. I told them to keep their heads down, so we might find many enemies—or none at all, knowing them.” She gestured up the stairs. “Varric, Cassandra, go to the Empress’s private quarters through the halla door. One of Gaspard’s men is in there—we’ll need him to testify against the Usurper by the end of the night.”

Ixchel looked back at Briala, her elves, and Bull. “We’ll search Florianne’s bedroom. Then we’ll take the other doors.”

Everyone nodded when she caught their eye for acceptance, and she led the way up the stairs.

Ixchel was aware of Briala’s curious glance in the direction of Celene’s quarters as Cassandra opened it, and her startled jump when Cassandra shriek upon finding the naked officer in the Empress’s bed.

She found the door to Florianne’s room ajar and adjusted her grip on her sword, prepared for whatever she might find in the Grand Duchess’s childhood rooms. Behind her, she heard Briala draw two daggers—silverite by the sound of them, like glass rasping against cloth.

Inside were several dead harlequins and the corpse of a Venatori mage. Fenris was lounging, utterly unconcerned, on the bed. “Like what you see?” he asked huskily, completely unabashed at the sight of her companions behind her. He stood and loped over to her, a handful of documents in hand.

Solas approached from the narrow hallway on her right.

“There is a rift, Inquisitor,” he warned.

“A tear in the Veil? In the palace?” Briala gasped.

“Does that mean demons?” one of her people asked.

“Yes,” Ixchel said, “but hear me out.”

She went over to a desk and began drawing on the parchment there. “If Solas could sense the rift, that means it’s just in the courtyard beyond here,” she said, marking it on the crude map in relation to where they stood presently. “There are chapels and lounges and libraries adjoining, yes?”

The spies and Briala nodded.

“That’s where I would hide an infiltration force in the middle of a party,” Ixchel said firmly. “I’ll deal with the rift. But be warned… If these are Venatori, well, you’ve already seen tonight what they can do. But if they’re Gaspard’s people, I’m afraid they might have been corrupted by red lyrium.”

She outlined the various ways she had seen Red Templars transform under the Blighted stuff’s corruption, and what that meant for their battle tactics, weaknesses, and dangers. “Clear those rooms while I handle the rift, and then I’ll join you to finish whatever’s left.”

Ixchel threw the map into the fireplace, then put her hand out to Briala. “Ambassador. A preemptive thanks.”

Briala took her hand firmly. “May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The elves left through the window.

-:-:-:-:-

“Ixchel!” Cassandra hissed when they regrouped. “You knew what was in that room—or should I say who!”

“I definitely owe you for that one,” Varric muttered through a shit-eating grin. "The Seeker was nearly as red as the Divine's knickers."

“Take the little pleasures as they come,” Ixchel told him. “Alright. Rift in the next courtyard. Probably an ambush. Ready?”

Bull unhooked his axe, Varric loaded Bianca, and Cassandra drew her sword and buckler. Fenris and Solas were already prepared, waiting to throw open the door.

Ixchel took a split second to find some peace. It was just a rift. The archers. Florianne’s little speech. Perhaps everyone was right, and there would be no other threat.

She nodded.

Fenris opened the door, and Solas conjured a barrier over her as she strode out into the courtyard.

“Inquisitor!” Florianne cried. “What a pleasure! I wasn’t sure you’d attend. You’re such a challenge to read, I had no idea if you’d taken my bait.”

Ixchel swallowed any visceral fear she felt at the sight of a dozen arrows pointed her way, ready to launch. She continued walking until she stood directly beneath the rift, and she looked up at Florianne.

“I had to save one last dance for you, Your Grace,” she said with the most savage smile she could. As she had hoped, Florianne grimaced at the sight of her twisted scars.

Florianne waved her hand. “Corypheus has a message for you, Inquisitor. You are not so different in your goals—but as different in your power as the glorious sun and a sputtering candle. Step aside, lay down your weapons, and allow a god to do what no mortal ever could!”

Ixchel raised an eyebrow. “He’s _already_ a god, Florianne?”

The Duchess’s scowl deepened. “Corypheus will enter the Black City and claim the godhood waiting for him soon enough! We will cast down your useless Maker and usher in a united world, guided by the hand of an attentive god.”

“Lofty promises from one who has failed at every turn,” Ixchel mused. “Pity, I’d hate to miss the rest of your ball, Duchess.”

Florianne turned her back on them in frustration. “And to think, Corypheus even said he would consider renaming Halamshiral after your sacrifice,” she sneered. She shrugged, then looked over her shoulder. “All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough for me to strike. No one in their wildest dreams would expect me to kill Celene myself!”

She spun around dramatically. “Kill the Inquisitor, and bring me her marked hand! It will make a fine gift for the Elder One."

Ixchel dove forward, through the lines of archers, and rolled across the cobblestones. When she caught herself, she pressed herself behind a pillar and extended a hand to tear open the sliver of the Fade. Demons poured out, concentrated around the archers.

“Bring them here!” she shouted to her allies.

Swiftly, they maneuvered around the battle field to funnel the enemies in her direction. When there was a large enough congregation, she leaped forward and slammed her hand into the ground.

A potent blast of pure, discordant Fade magic poured out of her, knocking the gathered enemies prone. Her allies had but a moment to back away, and then, before the demons and Florianne’s people could stand, she raised her hand and focused on the rift. With gritted teeth, she focused on the resonance between her hand, the Veil, and the pull of the Fade beyond.

She shouted in pain as she pulled the rift inside-out. Thus inverted, it sucked _in_ instead of poured _out_. The humans were leeched dry of life instantly, and the demons fared little better.

Her allies scattered, prepared for the next wave, but there was none. With another yank of the Anchor, Ixchel sealed the rift.

“Andraste’s tits!” Gaspard’s Fereldan mercenary cried. “Were those demons?!”

“You’re hired,” Ixchel told him, laughed maniacally, and then rounded on her friends, giddy with adrenaline and pain. “I need to intercept her. You must help Briala, clear this place—send her after me—she’ll need to be there—”

“Go!” Cassandra urged.

“I’ll cover you!”

Fenris raced with her through the halls, leaped on harlequins and Templars and Venatori at the slightest provocation. Ixchel had no time to worry, but she worried for him, because he was hardly using his greatsword. Instead, he favored the much more expedient route of _punching holes in his enemies with his fist._ And Ixchel knew how much agony that must cause him.

She skidded to a halt in front of the door to the ballroom and straightened up. Without looking over her shoulder, or even bothering with her appearance, or even relinquishing her sword, she pushed through the doors and continued walking with purpose.

Cullen quickly intercepted her. “Maker, Ixchel!” he whispered.

“Hide this,” she said, shoving the longsword into his hands. He handled it like a hot poker and stuffed it behind the nearest vase.

“The Empress will begin her speech soon. What should we do?” Cullen asked.

“Look pretty, Cullen,” she said. She patted him distractedly on the shoulder. “Just a little longer.”

Celene and Morrigan had their eyes on her from across the hall; Florianne and Gaspard were gathered just below her perch, clearly waiting for Briala, whose absence, by now, had been noticed.

Ixchel held Celene’s gaze and pushed her way past the Chevaliers posted at the entrance to the dance floor. There was a gasp as she stalked forward. “I believe this is the next step in our dance, Your Grace,” she called, spreading her arms out wide so that her golden scales spread like wings.

The Grand Duchess turned slowly. She stared at Ixchel with disbelief and disgust.

“Where has your smile gone?” Ixchel asked in a wounded tone. “Is it hiding beneath your mask? You can confess now, or I will be forced to unmask you.”

A murmur rose in the crowd, interrupted by hisses to be quiet. Fans fluttered, and a low buzz began to fill the air.

“There’s no need for more death, Your Grace,” Ixchel said, and she mounted the stairs with prowling steps. Florianne backed away slowly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Really?” Ixchel drew up short, a hand fluttering to her breast. She stood poised—one foot at the top of the stairs, perched and poised like a predator about to pounce. “You’ve already forgotten trying to kill me in the garden just a moment ago?”

The murmur had grown into a roar.

“You see, I’m not quite as easy to kill as the Council Emissary,” Ixchel said, and she gave Florianne a pitying smile. “Which you did, by the way, to implicate your very own brother. You’re afraid of him, which is why you also tried to neuter his coup by luring the captain of his Fereldan mercenaries away from his post.”

“I’m sure this is a misunderstanding,” Florianne interjected with a nervous laugh. “My poor rabbit, it is not the way of the Game to air such unpleasant topics out on the dance floor.”

“The thing is,” Ixchel said loudly, “you call us 'rabbits.' But we are _hounds_ , and there is no stopping us when we have caught the scent of our prey. That is why you begged the Elder One for a _whole Tevinter militia—_ to counter Ambassador Briala’s rebel network, who were dedicated to stopping you.”

“Y-you cannot believe anyone would possibly believe you, knife-ear!”

A silence fell upon the ballroom, so total that she fancied she could hear each individual heart-beat, for how wildly they must be racing. Or perhaps that was simply her own, which seemed to have migrated to her throat.

“That,” Celene said serenely, “will be a matter for a judge to decide, cousin.”

Florianne rounded on Celene in utter disbelief, and then she whirled in a flurry of skirts to face her own brother.

“Gaspard? You cannot believe this! You know I would never…”

Gaspard shook his head and offered Ixchel a large smile before vacating the dance floor.

“Your brother may have grown up with promises of a crown,” Ixchel told Florianne, who looked as though she were about to melt into the floor, “but there was a reason no one ever spoke to you of such things. You lost this fight before it ever began, Your Grace. You’re just the last to find out.”

Florianne sobbed as the guards dragged her, utterly boneless, out from the sight of the Empress.

Ixchel nodded. “Your Radiance,” she said without further theatrics. Briala appeared in the doorway behind Celene, framed in moonlight as she descended from the roof, and Gaspard joined them. The three leaders looked down at Ixchel expectantly.

“Come, Herald of Andraste,” Celene called. “We would have you shed your Light upon this dark matter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We reached the end of the night! After 7 chapters and nearly 28,000 words, perhaps I am finally satisfied describing dresses and politics.


	67. Before the Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11/29/20

Briala’s hands were bloody, and her chest fluttered with exertion. “Your sister attempted regicide in front of the entire court, Gaspard!” she hissed as she allowed Ixchel to walk past her and onto the balcony. The Inquisitor took up a spot on the railing, looking out over the city while the bickering ran its course.

The wind had picked up further, and now a chill set in. She shivered as her skirts sang about her thighs.

“You’re the spymaster,” Gaspard drawled in reply. “If anyone knew this atrocity was coming, it was you.”

“You deny your involvement?” Briala pressed with a smirk. Ixchel frowned.

“I do deny it!” Gaspard spat. He hissed through his teeth. “I knew nothing of Florianne’s plans! But you…you knew it all along and did nothing!”

“I don’t know which is better,” Briala scoffed, “that you think I’m all-seeing or that you’re trying so hard to play innocent and failing.”

“Enough!” Celene snapped. “We will not bicker while Tevinter plots against our nation! For the safety of the Empire, I will have answers.”

Ixchel looked back at her grimly. “I would never have been able to find, or escape, Florianne without Briala’s help. Her agents have helped my own take out a small army’s worth of Venatori in the lower quarters.”

“You were working together?” Celene asked, blinking. “The whole time?”

“Of course,” Briala said earnestly.

Ixchel chuckled. “Well, no,” she corrected. “It’s just easier for me to convince other ‘knife-ears’ to aid me than it is for me to convince Chevaliers.” She glanced at Gaspard.

“My sister is a treasonous bitch,” Gaspard allowed.

“As are you,” Celene murmured. “That is what started all of this.”

“Indeed.” Ixchel gestured into the ballroom. “The threats you’ve made to the Council of Heralds are utterly sickening. Burning them in their homes? Slitting their wives’ throats and using their bodies—forgive me, Your Radiance.” Ixchel was not apologetic at all at the look of horror on Celene’s face.

“So ‘Gaspard is a crass bully’?” Gaspard scoffed. “Is that the worst you can say of me?”

“Well, the mercenary captain has some colorful things to say about you, personally, as well as your coup,” Ixchel offered. “I also have the note to your general ordering him to move troops covertly into the palace grounds.”

“It was a defensive choice,” Gaspard said, suddenly affecting a great weariness. “I expected betrayal here. Just…not by my own sister.”

Briala reached under her apron and pulled out a bloodied fabric. She unfurled it to reveal the symbol of the Red Templars, and she dropped it on the ground. “You, too, have sold out the empire to this Elder One,” she declared. “You have been feeding your troops red lyrium, and accepting Red Templars into your ranks! Inquisitor, Le Requiem and the private studies were _full_ of them.” She looked at Celene. “There were several of defectors from your Chevaliers among them, Celene,” she said. “Yvonne Blanchard. Voclain. Others. All turned into monstrosities!”

Celene stared at her.

“As I said, Celene.” Ixchel nodded at Briala. “I think perhaps the Ambassador deserves a reward. For my part, I am satisfied that tonight, we averted one Blighted future.”

Celene turned more fully to face Briala. She squared her shoulders. “I can scarcely believe you did all this for me,” she said.

Briala looked down at her bloodied hands. Then she looked up at the Empress. “I did,” she said. “I have faith in you, Celene.”

Celene’s guards were amassing at the door to take Gaspard away, wary of an escape attempt or a fight. Gaspard’s weariness had gone, but it was replaced by a smile. Ixchel pinned him with a fierce glare.

“In light of overwhelming evidence,” Celene proclaimed, “we have no choice but to declare you an enemy of the Empire. You are hereby sentenced to death.”

“Enjoy your crown, Celene,” he said with a chuckle, and he walked away of his own volition.

Ixchel tried to bore holes in his back with her eyes alone. Something still unsettled her about his attitude toward having his destiny stolen out from under him.

“You have done so much tonight, Inquisitor,” Celene said, drawing her attention back to the present moment. “For my people, and…for us.” She bowed her head. “I am used to these balls—they are usually but a trifle. Yet in this night, I feel that you have dispensed a lifetime of wisdom upon us all.”

Briala’s adrenaline seemed to have worn off, and she nodded tiredly. But she smiled at Celene. “We won’t forget this,” she said, partly to Ixchel, but partly a question to the Empress.

Celene’s jaw worked. “No,” she said. “We won’t.”

“Tell me what happens next, and maybe I’ll believe you.” Ixchel crossed her arms.

Briala glanced back at Celene again. Upon seeing that look, Ixchel felt a pain in her chest like a knife. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, silently communicating volumes and coming to an agreement. How had she missed that, years ago? How had she doubted it, now?

“There will be some…changes to the court,” Briala said at last.

“Not just the court,” Celene said. She turned her eyes to Ixchel. “Come stand with us, Inquisitor. We must give the good news to the nobility. As you say…Orlais owes you not just the night, but every future day, as well.”

The three women drew to the balcony’s edge again to overlook the ballroom. It seemed the entire court, even the crowds from the gardens and the vestibule, had packed themselves inside onto the dancefloor.

“Lords and ladies of the court,” Celene called melodically, raising her arms, “tonight, those who sought to poison our Empire with treason have been brought to justice! It is a new age for Orlais.”

There was a smattering of applause.

Celene lowered her arm in Ixchel’s direction. “We have all been blessed by the presence of Andraste’s Herald, and it is her light that has brought such dark sins to our justice. We have seen it ourselves, and we shall build a world in which all men and women live in harmony.”

The low roar had returned to the hall, but Ixchel’s chest tightened—for it did not sound like the distasteful hum of doubtful jeers and disdaining plots. It sounded like excitement. It sounded like _potential_.

Celene turned then to Briala. “Let the cornerstone of change be laid. I introduce the newest member of our court: Marquise Briala of the Dales!”

Briala stood tall beside them, and despite her muted clothes, held every eye in the court. She waited for the quiet uproar to settle, and then she looked out purposefully as though she could pierce the soul of each and every one of those gathered below her.

“This position is not just a victory in Halamshiral, or within the empire, or even for elves alone. Over a thousand years ago in the Valarian Fields, elves and humans _together_ defeated the Imperium. It has been a long road back to cooperation, but we can do so much more now! We are greater than our ancestors ever dreamed!”

She pressed her fist over her heart in the salute of the Inquisition.

“Together, we will start by saving our world from the enemy who took the Divine and tore the sky apart. We are already tracking these Tevinter agents. Soon, they’ll have no place to hide!”

“But that is tomorrow,” Celene said warmly. “Tonight, we celebrate our—”

The Empress was interrupted by a distant explosion.

Ixchel turned and ran to the balcony, followed by Briala, while Celene tried to calm the suddenly screaming court.

“No,” Briala said.

Ixchel wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep, but she could not tear her eyes away from the flames. There was no room in her heart for the grief she felt at the sight. No thoughts could keep up. Grief, and betrayal, were all she knew.

Screams rose from the alienage as it burned.

Briala and Ixchel rounded on Celene. “What is this?” Briala hissed, but Celene’s eyes were too stunned to be fake. Ixchel grabbed Briala’s elbow to draw her short, and then Ixchel ran back on swift, unthinking feet to address the ballroom.

“It will take all of us, together, to defeat the enemy that threatens our world,” she cried. “Here is already the first test of our unity! Halamshiral’s slums are burning. Orlesians are burning! No matter the colors or the insignia the perpetrators wear, and no matter if their victims are humans or elves or otherwise—these are enemies of your Empire, and who will rise to defend it?”

She could see her agents massing at the door, headed in the direction of the courtyard entrance to summon their mounts and prepare. Cullen was making his way through the crowd at the periphery of the ballroom to try and reach her.

In the silence that followed her echoing voice, Ixchel felt tears prick her eyes.

What good had she done this night, if...?

She opened her mouth to curse them for their silence and complicity, but then Celene was at her side. “There are some of the Usurper’s men in this room,” she said before Ixchel could explode, “but you have a chance now to prove your honor. Speak now, and we will judge your careers with mercy.”

“Your Radiance! Your Worship!”

Grand Marshall Proulx, from the Exalted Plains, shouldered his way to the front of the dance floor. “I fear, though I do not know, that this is a retributive strike by my brothers and sisters in arms who might not accept the result of tonight’s affairs. But I do. My forces are yours.”

Celene extended her hand. “Your honor shines more brightly in its isolation, but I know it will soon be reflected in the masses before me. Go!”

She turned back to the Inquisitor. “You have had a long night, Herald,” she said, her throaty accent swelling with the urgency of the moment. “May Andraste guide you, now more than ever.”

Ixchel did not wait.

She reached Cullen just as he broke free of the crowd, and now the crowd parted ahead of her. She ran, bare-footed, and Cullen turned and ran with her. “Inquisitor!”

“Keep talking,” Ixchel puffed. They hurtled into the vestibule and down the grand staircase, barely slowing.

“Our forces lie just beyond the alienage walls! I’m sure they mustered at the first sign of trouble. If we can flush the enemy out of the alienage, toward the fields, they’ll have nowhere to run except into our arms.”

“Good plan,” Ixchel said. “Just gotta hope none of _our_ Chevaliers get any ideas about collecting ears.”

They burst into the garden and down the stairs around the central fountain. Her companions were mounted and ready at the gate, and her white hart awaited her. She slowed just enough not to startle it in her approach.

Leliana handed Ixchel her longsword—then Cullen stopped her. He took the Inquisitor by both arms and made her face him. “There will be tribunals in the aftermath,” he said, chest heaving after their mad dash through the palace. All Ixchel could see was the glow beginning to rise up from behind its towers and domes, and the plume of dark smoke it illuminated. “We are in a position now, more than ever, to ensure justice is served if there are any victims. But for now, you have no army on this side of the wall.”

Fenris sprinted out from a side garden, and she tore herself away from Cullen to wave Fenris up into her saddle. She met the Commander’s eyes briefly. “If I prayed, Cullen,” she said, then halted. “Pray for me.”

Fenris leaned down and helped her into the saddle in front of him. She took the reigns and rounded the hart on her companions. “Save as many people as you can, in any way you can,” she ordered. “We’re too small to drive whatever force is in the alienage out. That’ll be Celene’s job. But we can skirmish, and we can ferry people out. If you can get any information, great. But,” she said through her teeth, “every second wasted is another person burned.”

She dug her bare heels into the hart’s side and sprang into motion.

For the first time, Ixchel truly understood what it might have been like to fly.

In the two times she had ridden the hart thus far, they had strolled at a leisurely pace. The hart had seemed mild-tempered and sweet in nature, and unlikely to possess any great speed. But it had deceived her in that way, and the people of Halamshiral had given her a greater gift than she had thought, for the hart moved like the wind as it bore her to Halamshiral’s defense.

A force had strategically occupied one of the two gates that made entry into the alienage a choke-point—designed, obviously, to prevent a flood of rebellious knife-ears from pouring into the city-at-large. It worked in the opposite way, as well, as Ixchel quickly discovered.

She drew up short as she saw the weapons drawn. Fenris’s grip on her waist eased slightly. “Red Templars? Chevaliers?”

“Samson,” Ixchel breathed.

“ _Raleigh_ Samson?”

Ixchel dismounted. “Samson!” she thundered. “You would trap these innocent people in a cage and let them burn?”

“This is the price of your insolence, _Herald_ ,” Samson called. “Florianne was s’posed to give you a message. Did she?”

Ixchel counted one Shriek and two knights behind Samson, but any more could be hiding just around the corner. She remembered her fight with Samson—five-against-one, and she’d still been sorely beaten until they’d managed to disable his armor. Then he’d just gotten _mad_ , and was nearly an equal threat.

Until her allies arrived, she had to avoid a direct confrontation here at all costs.

“They’re gonna spell your name in the ashes of Halamshiral when this is done. And not in a good way,” Samson said darkly. “Still time to surrender. Me and the true Templars can put a stop to the carnage.”

“What do you mean?” Ixchel demanded.

“You’re right. I’ve got no quarrel with the people here. Hell, I’ve been one of them.” Samson shook his head. “But these _Chevaliers_ … Wouldn’t be right to rob them of a beloved sport.”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes. She could hear her people coming up behind her, but even with their help… No. Samson couldn’t possibly intend to face her head-on. He was trying to be the Vessel, and his mind and body were too precious. He was here to make his threats, get in her head.

Ixchel took a step forward, and he took a half-step back.

He would run.

“You think those monsters wouldn’t slaughter the defenseless in Corypheus’s new Imperium?” she demanded. “You think his people would treat their slaves _any_ better than they’re treated now? You think he would do anything to help Templars with their suffering? Tell me what Compassion he’s shown you besides giving you meaningless titles as scraps, Samson! Tell me how he’s going to be any better than Meredith!”

Samson’s eyes glowed in the light of the fire that was rising above them. “He _saved_ me,” he snarled. “And he will save this world!”

“Corypheus has only delayed your corruption! He’s using you!”

“Templars have _always_ been used!” Samson roared. “Same lie as the Chantry, the Prophet just isn’t as pretty! How many were left to rot, like I was, after the Chantry burned away their minds? We follow him so Templars can at least die at their best!”

His men roared with him.

“Templars can be fr—”

Samson raised one arm, and his men charged.

Ixchel saw him flee into the alienage, and then her enemies were upon her.

Red lyrium, Fenris, and Fade magicks collided in her mind as the Templars met her on the promenade leading to the alienage, and the cacophony nearly brought her to her knees. She hung back even as Fenris leaped into the fray, for as cleverly as she had been armored in the Winter Palace, she was wearing—at best—half a suit of light armor in the face of a Red Templar siege. Wielding a single longsword instead of her usual two-handed weapons likewise put her out of her element, and it would be better to entice them toward her than it would be to engage the group as she usually did.

She needed to be fast, quick on her feet, dodge instead of absorb the blows she expected. The Shriek was the biggest concern. Its superhuman speeds would be beyond her and the sharpened points of its arms matched her more than any dual-wielder ever could.

The discordant clash of rage in her mind was cut suddenly by a piercing scream in the distance.

What was she _doing_? She couldn’t play this game.

Ixchel detonated the anchor. “Fenris!” she screamed in warning as the Shriek flew back into the crowd of Templars.

And she tore open the Veil above them.

Fenris scrambled back, grabbing on to her for a moment as they watched the carnage of the Red Templars being pulled into the Fade. “Is there nothing…” Fenris muttered. Then, he shook himself. “You can’t go in there like this,” he said, running a hand across her armor.

“I have to,” she replied, and she yanked herself free of his grip.

Vivienne, Cassandra, and Dorian were the first to reach her of her companions. Vivienne leaped from her horse and by the time her feet touched the ground she had her glowing, crackling blade summoned into her hand. Dorian was carrying an axe.

He handed it to Ixchel. “Best I could get,” he said, as he handed her Glittering Darmellon.

She handed the longsword to Cassandra, who would find more use for it, and she turned to the sight of the disintegrated Templar husks. No more forces took their place, and Ixchel set her jaw. “No reinforcements at the gate? There can’t be that many Red Templars here,” she told them. “They’ve just stirred up the bigots, hoping to start a war to destabilize whoever was on the throne, if it wasn’t Florianne.”

Cassandra nodded grimly. “Good. That means there isn’t a whole army behind that wall.”

“One can only hope,” Fenris growled.

Ixchel began her march without another word.

The smoke was thick inside the alienage—the fires had started here, at the entrance. Bodies hung out of windows, lay broken and butchered in the streets, everywhere Ixchel looked. Despite the heat around her, the ground was wet beneath her bare feet.

She didn’t look down.

There were screams everywhere. She had to remind herself that any single life she saved tonight mattered. She had to remind herself she was but one woman. She may have just rocked the foundation of an Empire and bent an entire court, but she was singular, and alone, in the face of an ongoing massacre.

Ixchel set off at a run.

Fenris, Dorian, and Cassandra quickly fell behind, but Vivienne kept pace. “Don’t forget your barriers, love,” she told Ixchel as they rounded a corner. “Seems like you’re trying to shake me.”

“We can do more if we split up,” she reasoned.

“We can do what we can do,” Vivienne replied.

They finally reached at least one edge of the chaos: they burst out onto a street filled with running civilians and shining Chevaliers. Not all of them were in Gaspard’s colors, but plenty of them were. They were scattered through the scrambling crowd, slashing indiscriminately at any unarmored flesh their blades could bite, and kicking down doors and shattering windows where they could.

Ixchel used her momentum to vault herself up onto a cart.

“Stop, butchers!” she roared. She raised her hand in the air and let all eyes turn to her. The Anchor crackled and flared, and green tendrils snaked halfway up to her elbow now. The wind howled around her, propelled by the clash of fire and cool air down the streets of Halamshiral. She had not changed from the party, and it was distraction enough for a large volume of civilians to flee the immediate vicinity.

They were screaming as they went—howling—chanting:

“The Inquisitor! She’s here! She’s alive! She’ll save us all!”

She desperately wished that could be the case.

But she knew it wouldn’t.


	68. Red Sun Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Scissorhands by Maggie Lindemann
> 
> edit: I updated Ch 60 (the long walk) with a wip sketch of ixchel's outfit!
> 
> 11/30/20

Ixchel leaped down from the cart and unhooked her axe. She was deafened by the screams rising up through the city, the roar of flames around her, the rush of blood in her ears. She didn’t hear, she _felt_ the slurs and threats of the Chevaliers roll off her as they came to clash with her and Vivienne.

There were only so many truly talented Chevaliers in the Empire. It was easy for a few foul men to destroy a city, but it was not, however, easy for mediocre warriors to go toe-to-toe with a Knight-Enchanter and a seasoned Champion, however outnumbered they might be.

Glittering Darmallon bit through plate armor and flesh and bone without distinction. When the last body fell, she quickly began picking through the civilians scattered in the street, looking for survivors. There was only one—an older elf who had been slashed across the back rather shallowly and then played dead. He was clutching a human woman in his arms, but she was dead.

He wailed, and then fell utterly silent as Ixchel helped him to his feet. “You must hide,” she told him urgently. “If they come back—”

The man limped over to a ruined doorway and disappeared inside.

Vivienne looked shaken as she caught up with Ixchel. She seemed to wince with every step as her heeled boots clacked on the cobblestones. She put her hand on Ixchel’s shoulder as they stood amid the bloodshed and took it in.

They routed two other small groups wreaking havoc in the crowded streets of the alienage. They found many more crime scenes as they swept through the city—but very few survivors. Ixchel hoped, desperately, that she wasn’t finding survivors simply because they had already managed to escape.

As they progressed deeper into the alienage, new sounds rose up above the city: voices, magnified by magic.

From the direction of the outer wall: _“People of Halamshiral! The Empress and the Inquisition come to your aide! Find Inquisition agents in the alienage! Find Inquisition agents in the alienage!”_

From the direction of the upper quarter: “ _Traitorous Chevaliers, cease this massacre, by order of the rightful Empress—”_

“I once saw the Empress’s arse you know!”

“Congratulations, Sera—”

“Well, so I didn’t. I drew it and someone said it was a good likeness.” There was a twang of a bowstring, followed by the sound of an arrow punching through steel. “That’s a story about trust.”

Ixchel wheeled through an alley blindly as she chased the echoing sounds of Sera’s cackling laughter. She lost Vivienne, she thought, but no matter. She burst into a street, losing her balance, and had to scramble on all-fours for a moment before pushing off and sprinting up a wider street. The Jennies were chasing something that had become aware that it was prey, it seemed, given the circuitous and urgent route.

Ixchel tried to anticipate, based on the carnage and the sounds that echoed over her head, where they might turn next. She swerved into another alley—and tripped over a low-strung rope and went rolling forward, scales and axe clattering on the cobblestones, and she popped up on her feet.

Sera crowed with laughter somewhere above her in the eaves of a ramshackle apartment. “Well lookit, we caught a white rabbit! Springy, that one!”

“Red Jenny!” Ixchel called. “I’m a friend!”

“Huh?”

“Sera, that’s the Inquisitor!”

A flash of movement, and Sera, fluffy and dressed in red and plaidweave as garish as ever, leaped down from a rooftop. Her quiver was still full, and her bow hung loose in her hand but ready. She had her scarf wrapped around her face to deal with the smoke up in her perch, but she pulled it down now to sneer at Ixchel. “You really _are_ an elfy-elf,” she said with a wrinkle of her nose. There was a trickle of blood down her chin from it, and a bruise blossoming across the bridge. “You’re a shorty though, you are.”

“And I glow,” Ixchel groused. “Doesn’t matter; people are dying. You’re up high—is it mostly small groups of Chevs or is there a more coordinated effort somewhere that I need to stop?”

“Wot, these bullies?”

One of Sera’s hidden companions loosed an arrow, and a single Chevalier went skidding into the street ahead of them, dead. Sera laughed.

“Great timing!” she called up, then looked Ixchel over from toe to crown with disgust. “Enjoy your party, Inky?”

Ixchel bared her teeth. “No,” she said. “This many lives aren’t worth one Empress’s ass, _Sera.”_

Sera’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know me?” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait, you have spying-spies! That it?” The young elf’s demeanor changed then, quick as a wind vane in a storm. “If you really want to help, get these fires out. The people who die are gonna be dead in the morning, but the ones who live are gonna die if they don’t’ve homes and businesses, yeah?”

“Fair,” Ixchel said. “On it. You see any of weird looking knights, all red and scary?”

Sera shook her head. “I mean, I seen ‘em before, the Red Templars, yeah? Not _inside_ the walls, though.”

“Mages in pointy hoods?”

“The ‘Vints? Naw. Tonight, least.”

Ixchel nodded. “Alright. Fires. Thanks, Friends.” She spun around to head off in search of her mages, but Sera called after her.

“Wait! Do you _really_ glow?”

Ixchel kept running. “Just watch!” she snapped over her shoulder.

It didn’t seem that the Jennies had followed her to watch, because when she net encountered enemies, she had to resort to using the Anchor to make the five-against-one fight more equal. When at last she stood in a the middle of a pile of corpses, the smell of blood and burning hair and _meat_ finally overwhelmed her, and she was violently ill in an alley. It left her shaking and teary-eyed, but she wiped her mouth with the heel of her palm and continued her march with her teeth bared.

When she next encountered enemies, they took one look at her and fled in the opposite direction.

Her race through the alienage led her eventually to a wider street blocked by a barricade. Armored bodies littered the ground, and as Ixchel jumped over them, a rock went flying in her direction. It was a vicious throw, but it went flying wide around her and struck a corpse. She dodged behind a house anyway—and found Dorian and Vivienne again.

“They’re terrified,” Dorian whispered. “They won’t listen to reason. We could help them, Ixchel. You must convince them!”

“I need you to start putting out the fires,” she told him. “That’s how you can help right now. Any mage you see, tell them to do the same.” She looked at Vivienne, who nodded in agreement and dragged Dorian away down an alley in the opposite direction.

Ixchel slung her axe across her back again and slowly inched out from behind her cover. “ _An’daran Atish’an!”_ she called with her empty hands held up by her head. “I am here to help!”

“That is _her_ voice!” she heard a woman call out. “Go, speak with her!”

There was a clatter as someone climbed down the hastily-constructed wall of furniture, and a human man with a bandage wrapped around his head jumped into the street. He eyed her warily. “Are you…the Inquisitor?”

She nodded. “My mages are putting out the fires, and my warriors are taking out Chevaliers with the Red Jennies where they can,” she said. “What do you need?”

“Send the injured here,” the man replied. “Keeper Soufei is healing as many as she can.”

Ixchel nodded. “I will. Have you been attacked here?” At the look that crossed his face, she marched forward and unhooked her axe. “Here. Rocks won’t be enough. If Inquisition comes, _ask them to defend you.”_ She gripped the axe tighter as he placed his hand on the staff. “Please. They _will_ help you.”

The man nodded shortly, his mouth set in a grim line. “Thank you, Inquisitor. How will you—”

Ixchel raised the hand that held the Anchor. It had not stopped glowing since she used it against the Red Templars, and the threads of its magic woven into her arm sent shooting pain up to her shoulder and into her chest. The veins had not spread much further, at least visibly, but she took the pain as a clear warning.

A warning she was definitely going to continue to ignore.

The man’s eyes widened at the sight, but he held the axe to his chest and backed away, in the direction of the barricade.

Ixchel gave him—and the barricade behind him, and the injured, and the helpers, and the dead—the salute of the Inquisition, fist over her chest, and _wished_ them to be protected, _wished_ the night to be over, _wished_ this had never happened.

A tear streaked through the grime and smeared makeup on her face as she _wished_ she had anyone to pray to.

But she was the only one she could ever expect to act, to _cause._ She held the power to respond to her own prayers, and ones she might hear. So Ixchel listened for other prayers: desperate screams, calls for help, shouts of butchers reveling in their slaughter.

And Ixchel flew on fleet feet to become their answer.

Alone, she faced troops of knights. Alone, she scattered groups of unarmored middle-class looters. Alone, she carried the injured to the barricade. Alone, she passed the night, and she did not spare herself a moment more to _think._ She acted: her ears were her guides, and her voice was but a tool to threaten, to thwart—and the Anchor was her shield and her weapon in one.

The Inquisitor hid from the Iron Bull and Varric when she heard them charging in her direction, lest they find a way to drag her back to safety out of concern for her well-being. She was aware of a raven flying low over her sometimes, and she hoped that it was Morrigan, searching for survivors—not searching for her.

There was still work to do, and she couldn’t let anyone stop her. Not now.

Ixchel passed Fenris again at one point and helped him engage with a _very_ large berserker dressed in Gaspard’s colors. When the battle was over, they stared at each other in silence: his eyes were on her green hand, and hers were on his throbbing lyrium tattoos.

They parted ways again before either could admit to the pain, lest they give in to exhaustion.

-:-:-:-:-

When dawn broke across Halamshiral, it was as red and bloody as the streets of the alienage. Ixchel heard fewer and fewer calls for help, and more calls of her own soldiers, searching for survivors.

The realization that the battle was over slowly hit Ixchel, but no relief filled her. The battle was over, but too much had been lost for it to be a victory. Tears dripped down her face as she slowly wandered in the direction of the barricade, and she mourned the fallen she passed. She took in the ruin and wreckage—doors dripped from hinges, caved-in rooftops, scattered crates of ruined textiles and pottery. Everywhere, lives lay shattered.

_Why?_

She had no answer. She could not fathom what could spur such senseless waste, such cruelty. She knew the Chevaliers spoke of such hunts as sport. She knew they didn’t think of elves as anything but prey animals. But she couldn’t even reconcile that with the horrors around her. She had never met a hunter who savaged their prey like this. She had never met a hunter who killed anything they didn’t need.

None of this was necessary.

Was all of it her fault?

Was it true? Did Corypheus understand her so well, because they were so similar? Did he know that this blow would hit her harder than any schemes or insults or coups in a court? How could the Templars and his faithful follow him, if this was the kind of god he was? One that understood, but exploited, the plight of the most vulnerable in order to further his own machinations?

She did not realize that she wept until she found the barricade once more, and Cole found her.

He handed off an injured child to an Inquisition soldier stationed there, and then the Spirit sprinted to meet Ixchel with open arms. He scooped her off her feet, then fell to his knees to hold her tight. Pressed against his warm, dry shirt was when she realized just how wet and cold her face was. “Your feet, your arm, your heart,” he said into her hair, reminding her of her pains. “Breathe. You need to breathe.”

The more she breathed, the more she hurt. But the harder she tried to hold her breath, the more she shook. She was going to lose the battle either way.

“Were…were you helping all night?” she asked him through her tears. “Is that why you weren’t at the ball?”

“There was so much in the city. So many people hurting… They just needed to be heard, so I listened.” He exhaled heavily in her ear and squeezed her tighter. “And then I needed to be _here_.”

“Good,” she whispered. “I’m glad.”

He looked up, jostling her, and she cried out at the shooting pain in her arm. “People are coming. They want to help you.”

Ixchel’s lips were trembling nearly too much to speak. “Stay,” she tried to beg him, but of course, Cole understood her no matter how broken her voice might be. He always would.

“Is that—it’s the Inquisitor!”

“Come, boy! We must take her to the Keeper.”

She curled into his arms as he stood, curled around her burning hand. He lurched forward and followed the newcomers into a building, out the back, and behind the barricades through a hidden side door. Ixchel could hear the moans of the injured grow louder as they approached.

“Keeper Soufei. It’s her.”

The Keeper looked up from where she had taken a moment’s pause, seated under the crumbling eave of a half-burnt home, and at the sight of Cole carrying the small, frail form of the Inquisitor, she reached for her staff. With a soft groan, she pulled herself up and hobbled over to meet them.

“Let’s find a place to lay you,” she said. “Somewhere private.”

She led Cole a few houses down and into a more intact home. The inside had been cleared out, and its furniture added to the barricade, and now the open floor was full of those who were too injured to move. There was space enough, and Cole carefully set the Inquisitor down. She curled in on herself even further.

“The mark on her hand is the worst, but we can’t do it,” Cole told the Keeper.

The weary Dalish mage nodded and began running her hands lightly over the rest of the young woman lying before her. She started at her feet, removing bits of glass and ceramic with nimble fingers. A light magical touch was what she could offer to soothe the heat and sores and bruises, and then she rewrapped the woman’s feet with clean bandages. She ran soothing hands up the Inquisitor’s legs and found only aching muscle. It was the Inquisitor’s side and arm that were truly injured: both grazes, but both aggravated by a night of running and leaping and exertion.

Ixchel could not stop shaking even after the Keeper’s touch had soothed most of her aches. She could feel the Anchor eating her, clawing its way through blood and bone and being. She was almost desperate enough to beg the Keeper to amputate it now, save herself the trouble—but she kept her mouth shut and cried into Cole’s lap.

“I’m sorry,” she told the Keeper. “I’m so sorry.”

Soufei picked up the hand that held the Anchor and held it between her cool palms. “If this is what the Usurper’s forces did when they _lost_ , imagine how much worse it would have been if they’d _won,”_ she said in a low, grim voice. “You have been all across the alienage tonight, doing what you could. Half of the people here are alive because of you. Your people are helping as we speak.”

Ixchel sobbed. “It didn’t have to happen,” she protested. She tried to yank her hand back to her chest, but the Keeper would not release her hand. “If I wasn’t here, they wouldn’t have done this.”

“Oh, they did it when you weren’t here,” Keeper Soufei said wryly. “This is not the first time Halamshiral has been purged.”

Cole began undoing her braid, taking care to run his fingers down her neck and her scalp and around her ears. “You’ve given everything you could,” he said in a desperately quiet voice. “You’re done. It’s over.”

But Ixchel knew it wasn’t over. She would have to walk through the alienage and witness the horror in the light of day. She would have to regroup with Celene and Briala, and her advisers, and the leaders of the alienage, to discuss the night’s events and how to move forward. She had threatened the foundation of Orlesian society, and this showed her just how violently it could fight her efforts. But more than that, it was a sign that Corypheus's threats were adapting to her competency.

She would need to anticipate him better, and she would need to reckon with how she hadn't foreseen the events of this night coming sooner. It seemed so obvious in hindsight—

But she couldn’t. Not now.

One step at a time.


	69. Among the Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Kings and Queens and Vagabonds" - Ellem
> 
> 12/1/20

When she had enough strength, Ixchel sat up and held the Keeper’s hands and listened. Cole sat with Ixchel between his legs, and his arms wrapped gingerly around her waist, silent and unnoticed as he provided comfort just with his presence behind her. The Anchor did not flare or crackle, but its magic pulsed in her hand erratically—building, she recognized. Soon it would burst again.

She did not hurry. She needed to hear. She needed to feel.

Perhaps she should have expected the “union” leaders—those who had greeted her upon her arrival to Halamshiral and presented her with the white hart—had anticipated some sort of human-led strike at the end of the peace talks. As Keeper Soufei had said, Gaspard’s Chevaliers were as likely to go hunting in victory as they were in loss. And after Celene’s massacre, there was little optimism for much better if the night went her way.

That was why, in fact, the union of city elves, humans, and dwarves had reached out to Keeper Soufei nearly as soon as the preparations for the ball began weeks prior. They coordinated with Soufei’s clan—Halveri—to take in as many of the vulnerable from the slum as they could. Not everyone could leave, or wanted to, but especially as more Chevaliers began to migrate to the city, more people packed up and left to join Clan Halveri until the danger passed.

Gaspard’s Chevaliers had begun to amass at the alienage gates fairly early in the evening, and it didn’t take long to see that they were waiting for some signal. The union leaders had gone knocking on doors to warn the remaining residents of the alienage, and there had been a slow trickle of evacuees over a point in the walls unobserved by either the Chevaliers or the Inquisition forces. Whatever the death toll for the night’s tragedy, it was undoubtedly far, far less than it could have been.

Ixchel was struck dumb by the coordinated effort, the cooperation between the different races, the foresight. It was both a relief, and even further pain. How had _she_ not been prepared?

Cole squeezed her very, very gently. “The past is out of your control, but you can understand more, for the future.”

Ixchel lifted her head and swallowed thickly. _“Ma serannas, Amelan,”_ she rasped. “But why? It must be dangerous for your clan.”

Keeper Soufei smiled bleakly. “Most of my clan were killed outside of Mont-de-Glace by the Vicomtesse, as a gesture to her noblemen. I came north to bring their remains home to _Var Bellanaris,_ to rest in peace with our ancestors. Instead I found the civil war, and _mien’harel_ in the alienages of Orlais…”

The Keeper was silent a moment, contemplating their joined hands. Then, she raised her face to Ixchel, where the pink vallaslin wound about her weary eyes. “Clan Halveri was formed in the union of two clans to make a larger one, dedicated to the _Vir Atish’an._ Many of us were dedicated to Sylaise to grow a home, and to defend it with peace and love. I had that taken from me, and I wanted it back. So I prayed and reflected at _Var Bellanaris,_ and we who remained decided to come here. At first, I had hoped simply to offer a home for any remaining orphans of Celene’s massacre. Then…the sky tore apart.”

Soufei stroked her thumbs across the back of Ixchel’s hands. “The sky tore apart and a Dalish elf fell out, and she was saving humans and elves, Mages and Templars, and _people,_ because that was what she decided to do with her newfound power. Everyone in Thedas has heard your voice, Inquisitor. Everyone who lives and breathes knows you fight for them, as long as we fight for each other, as well. So, the last of Clan Halveri will stand with the people of Halamshiral, as if they were kin—down to the last. That is the new way. That is the _Vir Atish’an_ I see before me.”

Ixchel raised Soufei’s hands to her face and kissed them as more tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Can I ask… Where did you hear _rogasha’ghi’lan?”_

Soufei chuckled. “I heard it from some of the rebels, first. Briala’s people. At first I thought they were speaking of her.”

“Perhaps she did as well,” Ixchel murmured. She exhaled heavily and released Soufie so that she could wipe her own eyes. _“Amelan,_ what do you think will happen next? With the union leaders, and Briala and Celene?”

The Keeper gave a rough laugh. “They have learned many lessons from the last _mien’harel._ We swore that we would convene and discuss our next course of action together, after the night had run its course. If there was to be a meeting with the Empress or Emperor, we would go together…be it for a negotiation, or to the gallows.”

Ixchel stared at her. “Really? Do you think that will hold true, after the bloodshed?”

“It must,” Soufei said. “The city guard knows that there is a union that speaks for the alienage—despite everything they’ve tried to break it. If there are any hot heads after what has happened, they _should_ be treated as individual incidents… _if_ anything has changed.” She tilted her head back and turned it to the sun creeping in through the window, filtered by thick smoke as it was. “But I have heard, Inquisitor, that a new dawn has come.”

“I hope,” Ixchel said, “and I worry.”

“If there is to be any hope, _you_ should,” Soufei said without a smile. “You are the only voice we trust that the nobles might possibly listen to. Perhaps we trust too much. You _should_ worry.”

Soufei offered to send word for her when the union did eventually meet, and Ixchel agreed, if only Soufei promised to make sure that _all_ the leaders wanted her presence. For as much as Ixchel knew she carried their hopes on her shoulders, she did not want to speak for them, or over them, or influence them. They deserved to form their own dreams and demands—and, once they had, she would gladly fight for them.

The human to whom she had gifted her axe returned it to her silently. There was new blood on it, but the man seemed to be in a fragile state so she did not question him but left him to Soufei to comfort as she saw fit. More and more Inquisition mages and soldiers had arrived as the sun rose, and Ixchel ordered them to help Soufei with her makeshift medical ward. Before anyone could ask her about her own state, she and Cole spirited away.

“Take me to Briala and Celene,” Ixchel asked Cole, once they were out of sight of the barricade.

-:-:-:-:-

It was a long, painful walk, but Ixchel partly thought she deserved it. Her limbs failed her at least twice, and Cole had to support her wholly as she tried to maintain her composure and fortitude. But at last, they reached the alienage gate. They stopped, just out of sight, and Cole looked her in the eye.

“They need to see me,” she said slowly. “I can do it.”

“You need to sleep,” was all he said in response. He did not vanish. Ixchel could feel his eyes on her back the entire rest of the way, watching for her knees to buckle.

Ixchel walked on her own two feet out of the alienage and into the bright promenade to the upper quarter. Celene’s forces milled about, organizing carts of supplies. Celene, obvious in her bright blue dress, sat on the ground in the midst of all the chaos, packing a crate with rolls of gauze.

All eyes turned to Ixchel as she walked through the gates and into the sort of no-man’s-land in its shadow. She staggered, and her heart was in her throat as she feared she would fall in front of them all—but she caught herself. She breathed with every slow step, imagined that it was the act of breathing itself that powered her limbs: her body was a mechanism that coiled upon the inhale, and unwound on the exhale, and every step brought her closer to the title she had never hated quite as much as she did in that moment.

_Herald._

She stepped out of the shadow of the alienage wall, and into the sunlight. The leaves on her shoulders and hips burned in the harsh red light, nearly blinding her with a gauzy halo all around her.

The first line of imperial soldiers sank to their knees at the sight of her.

She drew herself up as she stalked forward, expanding herself with a deep breath like a hooded snake bout to strike. With that lungful of smoke, she shouted: “Kneel to the people of Halamshiral! Not to me. It is their forgiveness we must beg, and their needs we must serve!”

Her hoarse voice echoed sharply across the pale pastel walls around her, and if she hadn’t had the attention of the entire city before, she certainly did now.

The crowd of knights and nobles and soldiers parted before her stormy gaze, and she plodded onward.

Celene came to meet her. “Your W—” at the stormy look Ixchel gave her, Celene corrected course flawlessly: “Inquisitor.” Her own voice had grown quieter under the strain of a night’s speechmaking, and it softened Ixchel a little upon hearing it.

“There are so many, Celene,” she rasped. “There are _so many.”_

“And without you, there would have been many more,” Celene said. “We are certain of it. We are certain of many more things now than we were at the start of the night.”

“There is a group—human, dwarf, elf—who have been acting as leaders in the alienage. They need time to gather themselves, but then they want to discuss…everything.” Ixchel shrugged uselessly. “I am here as your mediator, and your sounding board, and a confidant, Celene.”

Celene nodded. “We thank you, Inquisitor. We have been sending supplies beyond the wall with Inquisition soldiers, to avoid a provocation. We will continue to do so while we regroup.” She inclined her head to Ixchel. “It seems the wind has died down. Will you be able to find rest before it picks up again?”

Ixchel stared at her. “Will _you_?”

They smiled, hollow and knowing, at one another.

Ixchel followed Cole out of Celene’s holding at the promenade, and he led her to her hart. She gasped in agony as she put her feet into the stirrups and tried to haul herself into the saddle, and she would have fallen if not for Cole. Once he had helped her up, he joined her, and he directed her to Briala. They left through the main gate of the city and wrapped around the wall until they reached the exterior alienage entrance. Inquisition soldiers and civilians were bringing carts of bodies out of the alienage and laying them out in silent lines along the ground, and the new Marquise of the Dales walked among them with a parchment and charcoal to identify those she could. At her sides were the human and city elf union leaders.

Cole dismounted first, then caught Ixchel before her feet could touch the ground. He set her down slowly, but the pain was still nearly unbearable.

The three leaders turned to Ixchel as she approached. Briala had removed her mask, and Ixchel could see the faint tracks of dried tears in the soot on her cheeks. The city elf had a heavy wrapping of gauze around her head—it seemed she had lost an ear that night. Her face and neck were mottled with the gruesome and swollen signs of a beating. The man who accompanied her had fared little better. His face had already born the burns of a previous incident, perhaps even the last purge of the alienage. Now, one of his arms was in a sling, and from the bandages that Ixchel could see beneath his tunic, it seemed that he had been stabbed in the shoulder or chest—a nearly fatal blow.

Ixchel’s stomach churned. Halamshiral and all her people would bear scars for her failures that night.

“Inquisitor,” the city elf said, before Briala could speak. “A search has mounted for you, among your people. They seem frantic.”

“Then they are deaf and blind,” Ixchel replied. “I don’t care. My duty is to you, not them, right now.”

The elf’s lips tipped up in a lopsided smirk. “We appreciate that.” She shrugged one shoulder gingerly. “My name is Annais. This is Henri. We, Keeper Soufei, and our dwarven associate Mavin, have formed a union to speak for the needs of the alienage in times like this.”

“I spoke with Soufei,” Ixchel said. “I admire your foresight, but—this should not have happened—” She raised a hand to her head as her vision swam. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was only a matter of time, Inquisitor,” Henri said. He dissolved into a fight of coughs—smoke inhalation, likely, Ixchel thought.

Briala eyed him with concern. “I too have expressed regret for my blindness,” the new Marquise said. “It is a harsh reminder that I should never have thought myself as anything but a citizen of Halamshiral.”

Henri and Annais gave her wary glances that told Ixchel, just as Soufei had, that they still did not trust Briala’s intentions. That would take time to earn, and she hoped that Briala _would_ earn it.

Ixchel inclined her head. “As I said, I spoke with Keeper Soufei. I also spoke, briefly, to the Empress. I made her aware of the existence of your union and that you are the ones she will be meeting with.” She sighed. “She is sending medical supplies in with my people. I do not know her desires at this moment. I do not necessarily need to know yours, until after you have met and discussed them as a group.”

Henri cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Annais glanced at Briala again before fixing her eyes on Ixchel. “May I speak with you for a moment, Inquisitor?”

She and Ixchel limped out of earshot of Henri and Briala, who returned to identifying the dead. Annais prodded her own swollen eye and immediately regretted it. “Inquisitor, while it is true that we had some plans in place in the event of another purge… I’m afraid we are less prepared for what comes after.” Her smirk seemed to be a permanent twist to her mouth, and now it stretched further into a rueful grin. “With an elf in the court—a Marquise of the Dales no less—and Empress Celene promising harmony, I think we might have much more political standing than we had planned for. Henri and I, at least, aren’t sure how this…works.”

“What do you mean?”

Annais shrugged, then gasped in pain. Ixchel wished she could offer any support, but anytime Ixchel herself moved her head, the world seemed to take a moment longer to catch up, and she was supremely concerned that she might faint at any moment.

“Well… Should Henri and I be trying to gather Mavin and Soufei right now? To begin our discussions? Or do we have time to sort through things here? Should we expect to negotiate with the new _Marquise,_ or Celene, or both?” She bit her lip. “Do we send a messenger to them and tell them to meet with us, or do we simply _go_ as a group whenever we are ready?”

Ixchel blinked at her rapidly. “That entirely depends,” she said, surprised. “Do you want to play their Game, or force them to abandon it?”

Annais cringed.

“I want to believe the foundations and expectations of yesterday have been completely blown apart,” Ixchel offered. “I want to believe the future is being shaped in our hands at this moment.” She spread out her arms illustratively to encompass Annais, and the city behind her. “Who are the people of Halamshiral, and what do they want? For her part, Celene has _said_ she understands that she has been acting as though she only serves the interests of the nobles, and not the _people_ of Orlais. It would be _right_ to hold her to it. To operate as though it were true. To _make_ it true.”

The bare-faced elf before her chewed her lip nervously as Ixchel spoke. “We are hurting,” she said. “We are hurting, and we need to clear our heads of the pain. I suppose we’ll send a messenger to clarify that we need time to count the dead and speak with the survivors… And go from there.”

Ixchel nodded along. “I will be at whatever negotiation there may be. Though I foolishly spent my night rubbing shoulders in the palace, I hope—”

“I know, my lady,” Annais said. “We all do. We gave you Eldhru because we needed you _in_ that palace, and we trust you to speak for us to the people who would never listen to us. You did what we wanted you to do, it seems.” She held Ixchel’s gaze firmly, despite the swelling in her eye and the obvious discomfort she was in. "We will want you at our own meeting--the union leaders."

“Eldhru?” Ixchel croaked. Her throat was suddenly very tight.

“Soufei said it meant _‘our faith,’_ ” Annais said. “It’s what we called the hart.”

Ixchel covered her face with one ivory-taloned hand. “Oh.”

Annais touched Ixchel’s elbow her uninjured hand. “If we had truly been afraid of the night, we would have asked the Inquisition for help,” she added.

“I really hope that’s true.”

“What will you do for now, then, Inquisitor?”

Ixchel stared down at the ground through her fingers. Ash had fallen from the sky, and the grass was tipped with gray that could almost be mistaken for frost. She swallowed. “This was as much the Elder One’s doing as it was Gaspard’s,” she said at last. “I am the one set up as the Elder One’s rival. I need to meet with my advisers and rethink my strategy for preventing this kind of tragedy from happening again.”

Annais frowned as Ixchel thought aloud. “The Elder One was here?”

Ixchel shook her head. “His followers infiltrated the court, and Gaspard’s army. The Grand Duchess was going to kill Celene and let Orlais fall in the chaos, ripe for Corypheus’s taking. And one of his lieutenants spurred the Chevaliers to violence.”

Annais swayed a little, and it was Ixchel’s turn to try vainly to steady her. “And I thought the _Empress_ was cruel,” Annais said in a tearful voice. “Oh, Maker…”

Ixchel’s lips parted to offer any words of comfort, but she had none. She led Annais back to Briala and Henri in silence. Henri took Annais under his good arm, while Briala stepped away for her turn to speak with Ixchel.

“Would you walk me back to my camp, Briala?” the Inquisitor asked. “I…don’t know how much longer I can be out here.”

Briala immediately offered her her arm, and Ixchel tried not to sag into the woman’s support too heavily. The two women were quiet for some time, as they walked the circumference of the city wall.

“Gaspard is dead.”

Ixchel closed her eyes.

Briala was quiet for another long moment.

“I have heard that you killed the demon, Imshael.”

“Spirit,” Ixchel muttered.

Briala drew up short.

“A spirit’s natural state,” Ixchel said softly, eyes still closed, “is peaceful semi-existence. It’s rare to be able to reflect reality, and they reflect the strongest impacts of our world. When they’re twisted from that purpose—reflection—they become demons. And Imshael…” Her voice wobbled, cracked, broke entirely. She was crying again. “The ‘choice spirit’ told me that hope is a choice.”

Briala was silent again, but Ixchel could almost hear the gears turning in her brain. Ixchel focused on her own breathing in the meantime, and allowed the woman to come to her own conclusions about whatever Ixchel might have meant.

“How much do you know?” Briala asked. “Whatever foreknowledge you gained in your time travel, or from Imshael, or—from wherever?”

“Too much,” Ixchel said. “But tell me why you called Michel’s favor.”

Briala’s grip on Ixchel tightened, but she continued to help the Inquisitor walk on. Her voice was lower when she spoke next, and though Ixchel did not see, she imagined that Briala’s eyes roamed the path in front of them as though viewing the scene anew:

“Celene had told me she would free my people. She had told me hundreds of times—since we were girls. I think she told it to herself so often that she believed herself, but when the nobles protested, she ignored her promises to me thinking I would forever remain by her side. As silly as it sounds now, I had to show her that every time she was choosing _her people_ over _mine,_ she was choosing _her people_ over _me."_ Her breath caught. She swallowed. “In doing so, I spared Gaspard. I had also thought, at the time, that by sparing him and leaving him to rival Celene, I would be able to stoke and empower a rebellion in the chaos. Now I wonder…a great many things.”

"I've had enough of Games where lives are bartering chips," Ixchel sighed.

Briala smirked humorlessly. “I had been content for her to continue doing so with her own people, while I fought for the others who have no one to champion their cause. Or so I thought.”

It was Ixchel who stopped walking this time. She looked up at Briala. “It doesn't have to be one person. It _shouldn't_ be,” she said desperately. "I can't do this alone."

“They think you can,” Briala said, voice suddenly harsh. “They think _you_ think you can.”

“I may act like it, because I _have_ been alone in so many of these fights.” Ixchel still whispered, and even that was fading. “I still don’t know if that’s changed. _They_ don’t know if that’s changed. And we don’t know if Celene has changed. But it can’t stay that way forever. If the world is going to be any different, _truly different,_ there have to be enough of us out there, speaking for the ones without a voice… Until the world learns to listen, without us.”

The women stared at each other: a bare-faced elf and the blood-written elf-blooded bastard, both carrying titles meant for people with rounder ears.

“Hope is a choice,” Ixchel said. “And hope…requires trust. So. Do you trust me?”

Briala exhaled slowly through her nose. “Yes.”

“Then tell me: what does being a champion look like now _, Marquise?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma serannas, Amelan - thank you, Keeper  
> Var Bellanaris - “Our Eternity” the ancestral elven burial place in the Exalted Plains  
> Vir Atish’an - Way of Peace (Sylaise’s Way)  
> Rogasha’ghi’lan - Brave Guide/Leader  
> Mien’harel - violent rebellion  
> Eldhru - our faith


	70. Plans and Plots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/1/20

They encountered Cullen at the edge of the Inquisition camp. He took one look at her, thrust his armful of supplies into a soldier’s chest, and sprinted over.

“Inquisitor!”

Ixchel gave Briala a small smile and squeezed her arm. “I’ll be in good hands,” she whispered. “Be in touch?”

“Soon,” Briala agreed. “We have much work to do.”

Ixchel reached for Cullen as Briala released her, and the Marquise of the Dales left without another word. Cullen caught her extended hand, and when his bare hand clamped over the Anchor, it was as though something in her snapped. Her knees gave way, and she hit the ground hard.

“Ixchel, you are injured!”

“Yes,” she laughed hoarsely, “I am, Cullen. But we have no time. Samson was here.”

“Stop that.” He pinned her with a fierce look, which was made only more fearsome by how _haggard_ he seemed after the night they had had. “We have time.”

Her hair hung matted about her face as she leaned forward and dug the fingers of her other hand into the dirt. “I refuse to allow you to carry me, and we will talk about Samson right here!”

Cullen snorted and in one easy motion, had flipped her ‘round and lifted her in his arms. She raised her hand to hit him, but it landed weakly on his chest, and she left it there. Her muscles went limp now that they weren’t desperately holding her up; the pain she had been ignoring rushed to the forefront of her senses—but though her voice was nearly gone, she still said, “Samson’s a good person, Cullen.”

“Say that again, and I might drop you,” he replied. “What in the world would make you say that, Ixchel?”

“Because you’re a good person.”

Cullen’s grip on her tightened reflexively, as though to compensate for the fact that he maybe really thought he might drop her. She tucked her chin and peered up at him through her lashes to gauge his reaction. He had gone pale—actually, he looked sick.

She whetted her cracked lips and continued. “He’s loyal to Corypheus because he thinks Corypheus was kind to him when no one else was. And he was right. But he _follows_ Corypheus because he thinks at least that way, Templars will reach their full potential before they get used up and die—because all Templars get used up and die, and this seems to be the only option to do so outside the Chantry’s control, that he can imagine. Because he’s forgotten how to hope for more.”

She pressed her cheek into Cullen’s shoulder as she continued to stare up at him. “He’s kind to his men. He’s kind to Maddox…”

Cullen growled. “You can’t save everyone, Ixchel. Not everyone has a heart of gold underneath. _Samson_ has sold out not only himself, but all those people he purports to care about—has led them to suffer, to a _slaughter,_ in the name of what? A monster who would do _this!”_

“I told him so,” she assured him. “I might not succeed. But we can try.”

“Even if you did,” he said roughly, “he won’t live long without lyrium. I’ve seen it before… He was already too far gone in Kirkwall.” He looked down and finally met her gaze. His face softened despite himself; he sighed. “Do you have a plan?”

She blinked at him slowly. The steady rhythm of his pace as he carried her was lulling her to sleep, as was the smell of him, strong beneath her cheek. “I have so many _plans,”_ she muttered disdainfully to herself. “I suppose I’ll come up with another.” She pressed her face into his shoulder then and allowed herself to close her eyes—just for a moment. He respected her silence, and her mind dipped briefly into a dizzying and disorienting nothingness before returning to her aching body. “Cullen?”

“Hm? We’re almost to the medical tent.”

“I don’t want to be…this.”

He slowed to a halt.

“Injured? Intelligent?” he asked. “Hopeful? Kind?”

She made a soft, noncommittal sound, because she didn’t really know what she was trying to say. Cullen started walking again in silence; she lurched as he ducked, and then the light wasn’t red against her eyelids and the air wasn’t so harsh in her throat. She guessed they were in a tent, but she didn’t hear the sound of anyone else with them. He sat, but he did not set her down.

“It sounds—and looks—like you ran across the whole alienage and fought an army by yourself, Ixchel,” he said, and he smoothed a heavy hand down her bloodstained, grimy leg wraps down to her ankle. He clucked his tongue at her ruefully. “All that, after holding off Chevaliers and lords and ladies with your words all night?”

Ixchel couldn’t speak. She focused too intently on trying to breathe, because it felt like her throat had lost the ability to let air through after being filled with so much smoke. Cullen, perhaps, thought she had fallen asleep; his voice grew even softer, and for a moment, he seemed lost in reverie. “The whole evening, you had them wrapped around you… You never deceived them, not once, yet they couldn’t see what was on the horizon. But without a moral bone in their bodies, how could they possibly understand you?”

Cullen took her hand from his chest and smoothed open her palm to show him the veins of pulsing green magic spreading from it.

“To watch you stand so firm against all expectation or convention… To hear you, all night, exhorting the most apathetic men to remember the mortal responsibility they have to one another… Of _course_ you would disappear into a burning slum and run off on your own.”

She opened her eyes blearily. “You mad?” she asked with a small quirk that split her lip.

The corners of Cullen’s eyes creased as his smile reached them. “Inspired,” he offered.

“It still wasn’t enough,” she whispered.

Cullen’s brow furrowed. “You are _one_ person, Ixchel. We are _one_ organization. At some point, there is a limit to what you can do. That is what is most inspirational of all, really: you have been able to inspire so many other people to carry out this vision of _doing right by one another.”_

“But there are still Chevaliers who’d take Annais’s ear.” She grimaced, but she had no strength left in her to cry. “And…you’re right. I’m sure I can’t convince Samson.”

Cullen exhaled very, very slowly. He covered her hand in his own and held it gently, but firmly. “But you would _try,”_ he said. “And that’s why I—”

He caught himself.

She stared at him, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. He suddenly seemed supremely uncomfortable holding her, and she stirred in his arms to try and extricate herself and save him the shame or embarrassment, or whatever emotion it was that played out across his face now. But Cullen surprised her by tightening his grip on her hand and holding her more securely.

“If you can earnestly exhort the _nobles of Orlais_ to meet a higher moral standard—if you can see something _good_ in Samson… Do you realize how much that has inspired people?”

“What…?”

“When you turn your shining eyes on us, on me, what will you see?” he asked. “If you can see good in bad men, how dare we who strive to be better, doubt our own worth? How could we not fight as hard as we can for the better future you believe in?” His smile had returned. _“Whatever_ you are, Ixchel, you’re contagious.”

Ixchel was too tired to even bother hiding her red face. She looked up at Cullen and tried to find words, but they had failed her again. He chuckled at himself a little ruefully. “Maybe contagious isn’t the right word.”

“No, I hope it is,” she said seriously. “Because I don’t want to be alone.”

Cullen’s breath left him all at once, but before he could respond, the flap at the front of the tent was lifted and one of their chief healers entered. “Commander,” he said. “Inquisitor.” He began unpacking his bag of supplies, unbothered by their perhaps compromising position.

But behind him, Rylen ducked in. “Commander! ‘Fraid it’s urgent—ah, Your Worship!” Rylen saluted them both. “Well. I see you’re no longer missing. But, er… Perhaps the situation with the _rampaging Iron Bull_ might require your attention?”

“Oh, Bull,” Ixchel sighed. “Go on, Cullen.”

-:-:-:-:-

The healer was clearly quite spent already, and he could do only a little better than Keeper Soufei had: he swept cool magic down her throat and into her chest to clear her lungs, and he had run his hands across her face to ease the swelling and pain that had come from her night of fighting and crying. With a damp cloth, he removed the blood and ash and makeup that had caked on her skin.

Ixchel was told that the pain in her feet and legs was partly due to the strain of her night and not from any injury that the healer could heal. But the healer stopped short of ordering her to keep off of them. Instead, he gave her a full flask of healing potion diluted with cool water to nurse while she continued on with her day. She was grateful; she had a long day ahead, and there was no chance that she was going to spend it in bed.

She knew her hair was still a wild, tangled mane behind her, but there was nothing to be done about that, or her blood-stained clothes, now. Ixchel left the tent and was immediately saluted by everyone in view. She saluted them back and drew a breath. “I’m done making speeches full of double-speak. So: the night was full of tragedy, but I know we won’t let the lives lost here be in vain. Inquisition, thank you for serving the people of Halamshiral. I hope I can serve you just as honorably.”

“Inquisitor!”

“Your Worship!”

“We shall!”

The calls came loud and clear, and she offered them weary smiles before continuing on through the camp. It was rather easy to find her companions, because they were causing quite a commotion off to the side of camp. Perhaps Cullen had simply requested they relocate their quarrel, for it seemed Bull and Fenris were continuing to have a very loud fight. But as she drew closer, she realized they were _agreeing_ with each other.

The topic? How reckless she was.

As soon as it dawned on her, she looked around for a direction to run before she could be seen—but it was too late. They had seen her and were stalking toward her, and she knew there was no escape.

The Iron Bull crossed his arms, but Fenris simply accosted her with his eyes. “You gave away your _axe!”_ he demanded. “I thought you had lost it, but you _chose_ to use the Anchor? My brands hurt, Ixchel, but they won’t _kill me!_ Why would you resort to such means?”

“Because there were no soldiers in the area to defend the barricade, and it seemed like the right thing to do.” She crossed her arms as well, then uncrossed them, because she wasn’t trying to be too defensive. “Also—do you _really_ know they won’t kill you?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

He gritted his teeth.

Bull grunted. “You wanted my Ben-Hassrath read, Champ? How’s this: you go running off into a war zone alone because you really feel like you’re just another one of us. That’s being generous, considering you probably want to think you’re worth less.” He fixed her with his one eye and set his mouth in a harsh line. “You’re a talented warrior. You’re pretty good at talking. You think you can fight or speech your way out of whatever problem, and whatever problem you _can’t_ handle will be the one you _deserve_ to fall to.”

She tried not to look too taken aback, but he had certainly struck her off balance. She took a swig of her healing draught to occupy her mouth so she wouldn’t rise to his provocation. Of course, he watched every move.

“Don’t you dare say something about your simultaneous truths,” Bull warned.

She colored.

“It’s also _really hard_ to justify how much money you’re paying me to be your bodyguard when you do things like that, too,” he added after a moment.

“I’m sorry for a lot of things,” she allowed. “You’re acting like I planned for any of that. I know I played it _really_ cool at the ball, but in the burning wreckage of the most populous alienage in the country it’s hard to keep a plan together. Or a group.” She held up her hands. “He got to me. Corypheus got to me. And I’ll gladly throw myself back into the burning wreckage of an alienage _again_ if it comes to it.”

“Half the city thinks you’re dead, you realize that, right?”

Ixchel lowered her arms slowly. “I’m not surprised.”

“So?” Bull pressed. “You owe us the full story, so we can set them straight.”

“What, by spreading exaggerated myths about the Herald of Andraste?” She flexed her fingers around the Anchor as another wave of pain shot up her arm. “Tell them I spent the night chasing the screams of victims, stopping the butchering where I could, and dragging the injured to the Keeper. That’s really all that happened. I can’t imagine it was very different from the nights any of you had.”

They couldn’t deny that, at least.

“Did he really get to you?” Fenris asked seriously.

She bit her lip. “No. Not the goading. Not the ‘I’m a god, stand down you puny mortal’ stuff.” She turned to look up at the spires of Halamshiral, but they were blocked out by the smoke that still rose from the alienage. “I just…can’t reconcile any of this. How he can purport to have the same motives as me, and attract followers for it so faithfully, but do things like _this._ Or how there are people—normal people, not even twisted by red lyrium—who would _do_ these things just _because.”_

Ixchel returned her gaze to Fenris and Bull. “I should have remembered that both of you fought in Seheron,” she said. “It would have been better for the three of us to stick together. Or to have each of us lead a group—or... If I had thought about it, even for a second...”

Bull hooked a thumb in the strap of his shoulder harness and cut her off with a dry observation: “Oh, she’s blaming _herself._ It’s _definitely_ the god thing.”

Ixchel bristled. “Do you have a verse from the Body Canto for this?” she asked tersely.

“Yeah, actually.” Bull raised an eyebrow. “But I’m not about to remind you about the Body Canto right now. Too many non-Qunari use it to justify suicide.”

“ _‘Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it,’”_ she quoted.

“Now where did you learn all that?” Bull asked.

She ignored him with vicious pointedness. “Where is everyone else? Was anyone hurt?”

“Vivienne was at the inner gate,” Fenris said, “coordinating supplies from the imperials into the alienage. Varric was somewhere on the eastern side with that dwarf, Mav. The ‘Vint I believe was with your Seneschal, and Cassandra was with your Ambassador.”

Ixchel took another sip of her tonic as she contemplated that. “I’ll go find Josephine,” she decided. “If you run into the others, thank them for helping the city. But we need to come together, before the end of the day, and talk about what happens next.”

“Good thing we’re coming with you, then,” he said.

Ixchel tensed. She had hoped to have Cole help her find Solas next. She had heard nothing of him from anyone thus far, had not seen him a trace of him in the alienage, and it ate at her. He had been gone too long. Something had changed about him. It terrified her that she might have overlooked something—anything—that could tell her what he planned. If there was one lesson she was learning, it was that she didn’t know what else she had overlooked. She couldn’t afford to remain ignorant to his plans. She couldn’t afford to trust his silence.

But she also needed to coordinate with her Ambassador, and at least Fenris and Bull knew where Josephine was.

-:-:-:-:-

They found Cassandra and Josephine in front of the main gates to the city. As soon as Ixchel came into view, with Bull and Fenris behind her, the small army of nobles and merchants and scouts who surrounded the Ambassador and the Seeker parted and formed a path straight to them. Ixchel limped along as best she could and ignored the whispers and stares.

Cassandra and Josephine drank in the sight of her with identical expressions of horror and relief. “The reports of my demise were a little premature,” Ixchel said humorlessly. “Can you spare a moment?”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Josephine said, and she packed up a shoulder bag’s worth of documents before leading her entourage to the guard post at the gate. The city guard had apparently given them space inside to use as an office, and Josephine closed the door behind them once they’d gathered. That very moment, Cassandra put both her hands on Ixchel’s shoulders and glared into her face. The Seeker didn’t really need to say anything at all to communicate her displeasure. Ixchel tried to seem appropriately apologetic, and it seemed enough to satisfy Cassandra for the moment. She gave Ixchel a small push toward a chair, and Ixchel sat gratefully.

“I’m sorry,” she said; Bull huffed from where he stood.

Josephine sighed. “Well, if there’s one good thing that came out of Haven, it’s that we have become far more disaster-prepared,” the Ambassador said. “The Commander and I had developed a plan in case of a strike against Skyhold,” she explained. “So far, we have been able to implement it fairly well even in the urban setting." She began listing things off on one bejeweled hand. "A squad is in charge of collecting the remains and bringing them to those who can identify them—Sers Annais and Henri—while another, under Cullen, gathers medical supplies to deliver them to the healers and identify those who are more gravely injured to seek more attention. The Seeker and I have been coordinating with those who are not skilled to keep them out from underfoot and identify ways they can, perhaps, provide aide.” Josephine and Cassandra shared a weary look. “Leliana and her agents are scouring the wreckage for survivors, valuables, and clues that might lend insight to recovery efforts or a payback strike. At least,” she said, lowering her hand, “that’s generally the plan for Skyhold.”

“It’s a good plan,” Ixchel assured her. “It seems to be moving smoothly.”

“Except,” Cassandra interjected, “that we lost our _leader_ in the havoc.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’ve spoken with Annais, Henri, and Soufei. I haven’t spoken to Mavi, the dwarven member of the union. They aren't prepared to have _bargaining power,_ or to be listened to. They formed to prepare for future purges and to coordinate recovery on their own, not be a political entity really. I came to you, Josephine, because we need to make sure that they don’t get trampled at whatever negotiation comes with Celene and Briala.”

Josephine crossed her arms and looked at a soot-streaked window thoughtfully. “I wonder what the Empress plans.”

“I want her to take moral culpability for doing this exact same thing not so long ago,” Ixchel admitted. “But I don’t want to depose her, either. And it’s not just because I want to believe she can change, Bull. It’s also because we just executed Gaspard and I have no idea who would be next in line, and I don’t think we can afford to have Orlais thrown into the hands of an unknown right now.”

“Absolutely not,” Josephine agreed. “I doubt she would offer such a thing, anyway. Do you think they might demand it?”

Ixchel shook her head slowly. “I honestly don’t know. They seem to have cooler heads than most.”

“That might be why they are the leaders,” Cassandra mused.

Josephine tapped her lips with a finger. “We have positioned ourselves as mediators,” she said, “and they trust us more than they seem to trust the new Marquise, considering her close ties to the Empress. I wouldn’t be surprised if they asked us to have a permanent presence in the area to ensure a smooth transition into this new…age.” She seemed too exhausted to keep up with pretense, and she looked back at Ixchel pointedly. “We can spare, at most, one delegate. But to spare a delegate, we would need to have consequences to back up their opinion. What consequences can you imagine, Inquisitor? We would not bring a military force to Halamshiral, or depose Celene, then what would we do?”

“At some point, we have to trust peoples’ consciences,” Ixchel said. “I know, it makes me just as uncomfortable.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of permanent, ongoing sedition,” Bull offered. “Isn’t that what the Left Hand of the Divine was for? ‘You don’t stick to the Chantry’s line, you have no idea how unpleasant we can be.’”

Ixchel was quiet as she contemplated it. “Celene is pious,” she said at last, “but the last time she made a calculated political decision to gain the Divine’s favor, she killed thousands of people.”

Everyone was quiet at that.

“Well, if we have no ideas, I can try and help guide them,” Ixchel said. “But I have no ideas. I’ve never even lived in a city.”

Josephine blinked at her in silence.

“The Inquisitor was raised by wolves,” Cassandra remarked dryly.

“In that case, I…suppose I will tell you how to run a city.” Josephine ran a hand through her unkempt hair and pulled it free entirely of its bun. She came closer and began unpacking her bag of documents. “You know, this wasn’t in the job description.”

“At least she takes us to fancy parties.” Bull’s comment earned him a laugh from Cassandra.

But Ixchel was keenly aware of Fenris at the back of the room, staring at her left hand with such a fierce frown hat she thought he might be trying to intimidate it into a more pacified state. She curled her fist around the painful thing and focused on Josephine as best she could.


	71. Let None be Beholden but by Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/2/20

The leaders on all sides decided to meet by nightfall on the promenade between the alienage and the upper quarter. Ixchel was invited late in the afternoon to meet with the union leaders and discuss their hopes and plans for the discussion, and then she rode her hart back to the promenade to regroup her inner circle for the events to come.

A pavilion had been erected on the site, and a large table had been brought out and even more chairs than could possibly fit. Ixchel took advantage of the seating to catch Josephine up on all that had transpired and distract herself from the pain of the Anchor. Josephine did her best, but it was clear that Ixchel was failing to hide her discomfort.

“And there has been no sign of Solas all day?” Josephine asked under her breath.

Ixchel dropped her gaze.

“Are you concerned for his safety?” Josephine asked. “Perhaps he was captured, or injured—”

“No,” Ixchel said shortly.

“And he is the only mage who could help with the Anchor…?”

“Yes.”

Josephine fixed her hair to give herself something to do while she worried, but Ixchel had nothing else to occupy herself with. She opened her shaking palm to stare at the Anchor and tried to see the spiraling marks of the foci that had seared it into her, tried to trace them out on her skin. She had removed her decorative talons and her vambraces and pushed up her sleeve, because the Anchor felt slightly better against the cool air, but still it burned. It was only going to be a matter of time before she needed to discharge it again, or else it would discharge itself.

She closed her eyes and curled her fist and tried to spread out her awareness of that magic in her arm, in the air. She had been able to sense Solas more and more often via the Anchor, but she still wasn’t sure how, and she didn’t know if it were a two-way street. But it was about the last hope she had of determining if he was even in the city.

Nearly as soon as she began to focus, she felt him.

She looked up in the direction of the alienage and found him walking up the promenade toward her. He was, like most of them, still dressed as he had been at the ball. But he was significantly more blood- and soot-streaked than he had been before, or, frankly, than Ixchel had expected him to be. A not-insignificant part of her thought he had taken advantage of Briala’s preoccupation to steal the eluvians from her again, and that he had been coordinating with some unknown lieutenants in his network, or otherwise putting his plot in motion.

Ixchel struggled to her feet and limped toward him as quickly as she could. A relieved smile spread across his face at the sight of her. But then his gaze dropped to her arm, and he hurried to close the space between them.

Whatever relief there was to be had upon seeing one another was ruined by the exhaustion and fear they both clearly felt.

“The Anchor—were you using it all night?” His voice was strained, and her overwhelming guilt was almost superseded by her annoyance at being reminded of how guilty she felt.

They did not embrace when they met at last, in the center of the promenade. He took her hand and dropped to one knee to inspect the Anchor at close-range. The sharp breath he sucked in through his teeth informed her that, perhaps, the situation was more urgent than she had allowed herself to admit. When he began to coax the Anchor’s reaching tendrils back into her palm, the relief was so sudden and welcome that she had to put her other hand on his shoulder to steady herself and keep her knees from giving way.

“Y-yeah,” she admitted shakily. “I got separated from everyone.”

 _“Tch._ You mean you ran off from everyone,” he chided. He glanced up from the magic that was unraveling her arm, and she recalled the same intense fondness he had shown her with his fingers on her chin at the ball. His gaze had coaxed something soft and vulnerable from her then—but everything that was soft and vulnerable about her _hurt_ now.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be mocking me,” she retorted. “You did, too.”

He glanced up at her again through his lashes. “That’s correct. I followed the Red Templars.”

“You _what.”_ She dug her fingers into his shoulder. “Samson is _dangerous,_ Solas. More dangerous than you can possibly—” At the look of amusement he spared her, she bared her teeth. “You got hurt. Where? How badly?”

“So did you.” With one hand, he touched one of her leg wrappings. “We were made for the halls of emperors, not such urban battlefields,” he murmured. Then, he returned to the Anchor.

Ixchel could feel it finally withdrawing its hooks from the muscles of her shoulder and chest, melting back out of her bones and down her arm. It was a strange and deeply uncomfortable feeling that left her incredibly weak.

“What happened to _you,”_ he countered, “all night? Besides playing at Andraste for the humans.”

The diamond-edge to his voice glittered, and her jaw tightened as it cut deep.

“What, my deeds haven’t been sung from the rooftops quite yet?” she asked harshly. “Do you think I style myself as a god for what I want to inspire in others?” She straightened up as best she could with her arm still clutched between his hands.

“They all _but_ sing it.” His thin smile suddenly had a vicious slant to it; they were somehow back where they had been that strange night at Suledin Keep, where he had seemed to be testing her in some way—assessing her with suspicion. Then, she felt as though she had passed. Now, she felt that she had walked into a trap. And she thought that he resented her for it.

“In the alienage, they talk of renaming this promenade _‘the Herald’s Way.’”_

Ixchel tugged at her arm again, overcome by the discomfort and the pain and the sudden need to be far away from him. “Are you—” She couldn’t tell if it were a falsification or something he had genuinely overheard, but either way, it was clear what he was trying to imply. And it _hurt._

She was so tired of _hurting_ that it made her furious. Her eyes burned, and her throat burned, and now her anger had been stoked alongside her worry and dread. It roared in her chest and face as she stared him down. “Honestly, after last night, maybe I _am_ one! Because I fucked up, and I wasn’t there for my people, and that sounds like all the gods _I_ know of.”

Solas did not look at her. He still had not released her arm; she could feel its draw down from her elbow now. Perhaps he pulled too quickly on the magic, or perhaps it was the strength of her emotion, or perhaps it was simply that the Anchor was so unstable, but it sent a particularly vicious lance of pain deep into her chest. She covered her mouth with her other hand and shuddered, silent, until the pain had passed.

The viciousness in him wavered only briefly at the sight of her pain, before it returned.

Well, if he wanted to be cruel, she would save him the trouble and do it all herself.

“I should have seen it coming,” she said through her teeth. “I know what cruel monsters Chevaliers are, win or lose. I should have seen it because Orlais was still going to be Orlais by the end of the night, and there was no way there wasn’t going to be some sort of reprisal in the alienage.”

He continued to stare down at the cursed mark in her hand, at its murderous undoing of her, thread by painful thread.

“This was as much a strike against me as it was an inevitable backlash against the city elves,” she said, her hoarse voice rising with her mounting frustration. “I’ve eluded the Nightmare, and I took Envy and Imshael away from Corypheus, and I’ve disrupted so much of his red lyrium for his Templar army—he’s run out of ways to hurt _me_ so now he’s going after all the people I can’t protect because _I’m not a god, Solas!”_

His face was as stormy as she had ever seen it, and his eyes were dark and deep as a troubled ocean. “As long as people are free, they are free to be cruel. _That_ is the gamble of sentience. _Is. It. Not?”_

He punctuated each word with as much bitter vitriol as if he stabbed her with every breath, and he released her hand at last. Ixchel reeled back, hand clutched to her chest, and she stared at him in horror. The mage-god before her—genuflecting on one knee—slowly unfolded himself to his full height while she contemplated the implications of his words with a mounting sense of dread.

Empathy was the enemy of cruelty, and it was her weapon of choice. But Imshael was _right._ Empathy was the enemy of free will. It overcame the selfishness that was inherent in cruelty of every form, the insulation of it, by negating the self entirely: empathy placed the self into the world, so that even the selfish choice to aide became selfless. In practicing it, one inherently fell under the geas of _the other._ No wonder the world resisted its presence.

Imshael was right, on every count.

_Futile._

Ixchel looked up at Solas with a sense of betrayal and despair she had only known once before.

_Why fight? Why even try? None of it will ever make a difference._

She clenched her fists against the pain of her heart being ripped out of her chest yet again, and she raised her chin defiantly. “And in this comparison to the Evanuris, where do you _expect_ me to fall, Solas?”

“What do _you_ expect?” Solas asked. His voice had not lost its edge, and if he saw the effect his words had on her, he did not relent. “There will be places you cannot be. There will be people you cannot protect. There will be those you cannot inspire. You are the leader of an _organization._ At some point, you must trust that. The only other option is _total control.”_

What remained of her skirts and her scales rattled from how tightly her rage and grief gripped her. She stared up at him and breathed heavily through her teeth and bit back all the things she wanted to say:

_So what have you chosen, Fen’Harel?_

_How did you dispel the rumors of your divinity, Fen’Harel?_

_How’d that work out?_

_Tell me the truth, Fen’Harel._

Ixchel felt the world lurch as a gaping emptiness filled her in all the deep places the Anchor had reached. She closed her eyes and pressed it against her chest, and she breathed, and she tried to remember something that had once given her hope. She tried to remember the thing that had convinced her he could be redeemed, and that a better world was possible: a wash of powerful magic…the impression of welcome…slaves fleeing, greeted by other freed slaves, tending to one another’s wounds.

_Fen’Harel bids you welcome… Rest, knowing the Dread Wolf guards you, and his people guard this valley. In this place, you are free. In trusting us, you will never be bound again._

_He takes no divine mantle and asks that none be bestowed upon him… He leads only those who would help willingly. Let none be beholden but by choice._

“I expect this to be difficult,” she said at last. “I’ve told you, so many times, Solas: I can’t do this alone. I can’t keep _choosing_ to put my trust and faith in others, alone. It only takes one misstep to put me on one of the two other paths: the one Corypheus is on, and the one I’ve already tried.” She opened her eyes. “One tastes like the Blight, and one tastes like deathroot.”

She saw Varric, Dorian, and Vivienne walking out of the alienage behind Solas, and she took another deep breath. She looked Solas dead in the eye.

“I am working on trust,” she said slowly.

His face was inscrutable, and he did not offer any insight into his thoughts. She showed trust in the only way she knew how at the moment: she turned her back, and she went to do her duty.

-:-:-:-:-

There was no time to catch up with her companions or reassure her friends that she was alright, for no sooner had they gathered at her side did Celene, Briala, and the union leaders arrive.

Solas sat deliberately out of Ixchel’s view, which she tried not to think about very much as she oversaw the proceedings. She made it clear from the onset that was a mediator, but she was there to enforce the dignity and equity of the union leaders with the ewight of her own power should the need arise. She made sure that Celene put all her cards on the table—as much as possible—before allowing the union leaders to respond with their own ideas and offers. Then, Briala was able to supply her vision of how the _Marquise of the Dales_ would be able to reconcile the two parties, or what she might require from Celene to enact the union leaders’ will.

Ixchel was proud of Briala’s performance. The woman had excelled at the Game, as behind-the-scenes as she had been for most of her life, and she had been able to unify a network of rebels because she was _smart._ She now saw her opportunity to establish that the Marquise would be a very powerful position in Celene’s court and would require a great deal of resources and imperial support to prove it. Likewise, she had the opportunity to show the union leaders that she listened to their needs, understood what was most important to them, and that she would advocate for them relentlessly—never making serious concessions in the face of even her own lover’s hesitations.

And Celene hesitated. She was in a delicate position where _she had_ wronged this community and needed to make reparations, but she was still afraid of a noble “uprising” should her acts of reparation set too much a precedent.

Too often, Ixchel found herself saying: “A precedent for justice, Your Radiance. What’s wrong with that?” or “A precedent for _kindness_. Why _not?”_

Their lamps and candles had been refreshed several times already by the time their talks were over. Josephine had deigned to be the scribe, and she promised to have the transcripts copied and sent to each party for posterity—while the Inquisition kept its own, as the neutral record in case of future question.

Ultimately, Josephine had been correct on almost all counts:

The alienage and its occupants wanted to be incorporated into Halamshiral writ large—its economy, its physical spaces, its culture—but have the security of self-governance in their community. The status quo until that point had been that the nobility of Halamshiral and their governor maintained complete control over public works, within and outside of the alienage. It was purposeful, then, that there are no parks in the alienage, no lighting on the streets, no aqueducts. Even the small community gardens that were started in back-alleys had been uprooted by the Halamshiral elite. Everything that has sustained the people of the alienage came from the nobility, and any community efforts that were not approved by the governor had theretofore been illegal.

The alienage wished to see equal prosperity in both communities. It seemed a reasonable demand, but Celene had cautioned: where would the funding come from? did the people of the alienage want to handle it all themselves and simply do so un-accosted, or do they want the city to sponsor it, or the crown? who would ensure that it is on-par with the infrastructure of the rest of the city, to which we might compare it?

On the same note, merchants and artisans held businesses within the alienage but were stymied by restrictions placed on them by the nobles—not that they could ever hope to compete with the nobles anyway, for they could not build storefronts, advertise, or sell their wares outside of the alienage walls. Without the sponsorship of a noble, they had no access to the physical marketplace of the city or to their clientele. No one from the alienage had been allowed to be part of the Guild, for example.

Not only that, those who tried to make a living in the serving class were not guaranteed a living wage, and the only guarantee was that between a human and an elf servant, the elf would never be paid more than the human—and would never get promoted, either. The alienage representatives wanted a minimum wage and a legal code that required each employer to have a clear path to promotion—something that could and would be enforced.

Celene identified a problem: setting that number without making the nobles who ‘pay their elves well’ feel that they were somehow in the wrong—even if they _were_ still in the wrong. Wage theft was difficult to prove, especially when it was at the prejudice of the employer, and the employer was the one who kept financial records and performance reports.

“Then remove the employment from the prejudiced,” Ixchel offered after a stifled yawn. “The nobles hire an agency, the agency sets the rates and ensures equitable pay for its employees. The agency guarantees service. The agency is run as a coop in the community. A union. I don’t know the words, but yes?”

The parties _did_ request Inquisition oversight for a starting term of three years, which Ixchel agreed to without hesitation. “You must establish a consulate,” Celene had added. “You must have an ombudsman, a guild representative, a law-enforcement agent, and…”

Ixchel had directed that conversation to Josephine, who demurred that such details could get worked out in the days to come.

The last matter of the night was that of immediate actions. The alienage needed food, desperately, and more healers, lyrium potions, and medical supplies. But most importantly, the alienage wall needed to come down.

It had started to come down toward the end of the discussion, and everyone gathered in the pavilion had exchanged an uneasy look that led to near-simultaneous agreement that they would say this was preordained, lest anyone think they had allowed a riot to form.

Ixchel allowed the leaders to stay and thank one another late into the night, and by the time everyone had departed, she had entered a new stage of exhaustion: near-complete hysteria.

Bull hauled her onto his shoulders without ceremony. “Hold on, Champ,” he said. “We are going to go party on that wall and drink your sorrows away. And Varric’s.”

She hung on to his horns with one hand and twisted around in search of her other companions, and she offered them all the weariest and gayest of smiles. “You heard the Bull,” she called. “Let’s go tear down that wall!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And he returnssss......


	72. I Know Who You Are Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Dear Wormwood" The Oh Hellos
> 
> 12/3/20

They joined a group of young people, some apostate mages among them, in blasting a series of holes in the wall from top to bottom. Bottles of bootleg liquor were passed around freely, and though there was no dancing on the wall itself, taverns on both sides of the wall threw open the doors for revelers.

They danced freely with one another to tunes no hall of the Empress had ever heard. Fenris and Bull spun her ‘round and ‘round; she and Varric danced on a table, and Dorian and Vivienne each dance-dueled her to the delight of those gathered.

Ixchel sang the song about Sera, which everyone already knew the lyrics to—apparently Maryden had indeed known her in Val Royeaux before moving to Skyhold—and taught them _Scout Lace Harding._

After a night of tragedy, there was a night of utter release for Halamshiral.

Ixchel thought she heard Sera’s voice in the distance several times, singing terribly rhyming songs about knickers and nug-fuckers and chevaliers. Dorian flirted viciously with Bull; by the end of the night, he had his fingers hooked in Bull’s beltloops, while Bull’s heavy hand rubbed Dorian’s shoulder comfortingly. Bull and Fenris swapped stories about the war in Seheron. But as the night drew on, Ixchel was drawn to Varric. Neither of them drank very much; it seemed she was not the only one who hadn’t eaten anything other than the finger-foods at the ball. Perhaps that was why he told her every story he could think of that had nothing to do with the business in Kirkwall, instead of actually talking about what was haunting him.

But as the chaos began to wind down, there was no avoiding it.

They walked the perimeter of the wall, past isolated groups still trying to take down sections of it, marking swathes of it in graffiti and murals. And Varric told her of Anders.

“You see a lot of fucked up shit when you’re not at the highest vantage point,” Varric said in a choked voice, “but you just don’t get used to seeing the kids die.”

Ixchel wrapped an arm around his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, and they walked back to the promenade to reconvene with Bull, Dorian, and Fenris. Vivienne had vanished into the night.

“C’mon, Broody.” Varric traded Ixchel’s company for Fenris, and he joined Bull and Dorian as they headed back to their lodgings in the upper quarter.

Which left Ixchel with Solas, right back where they had left off hours before.

There were a great number of bonfires at the base of the alienage wall, and they cast Solas in strange, shifting shadows as he drew closer. She had been surprised to find him joining in with them in their wandering and revelry, and every time she allowed herself to steal a glance his way she’d found him engaged with their companions.

 _Things are different,_ she tried to tell her hazy brain, but her aching, sleep-deprived mind fractured its hopeful meaning and reflected it in a kaleidoscope of twisted ways: he was different, and she didn’t know why; he was different, and he was dangerous; they were different, but she didn’t know if she wanted them to be the same; the world was different, and she didn’t know how to walk in it anymore; she was different, and she wasn’t sure it was better after all.

Now he stood in front of her, framed against a backdrop of flaming walls, and he was her ancient Elvhen god, and he was a mystery and a myth and a man. She was both relieved and aggrieved to feel that the magnetism that pulled them together had not changed. But in that moment, she did not even want him to be her erstwhile lover.

After her terrible night, after all her guilt, after all the sharp tension that had arisen between them, she simply missed her friend.

In the haze that her exhaustion cast across her vision, it seemed that his face was soft and sad. Perhaps the strange, almost antagonistic shadow over them had passed.

 _“Ir abelas, lethallan._ I did not mean to quarrel,” he said gently. “I have been afraid for you, and I ran to leave that fear behind, only for it to return in far greater force when I returned.”

“You’ve _been_ running,” she accused.

Hesitation flickered over his face, and she clutched her hands to her chest to bodily restrain herself from reaching for him, holding on to him in case he ran again. She wanted to cover her mouth like a child to refrain from scaring away what she sensed was a rare moment of honesty between them. But they had been there, before, too—and he had run from it each and every time, and she _hurt_ and—oh yes, she was tired of hurting.

She glared up at him in silent accusation and hoped that was enough.

Solas exhaled slowly; his breath frosted the air between them. When he spoke next, his voice was no less gentle, but there was a strength to it that seemed a response to her doubts. “Yes,” he said. “I have.”

A slight twitch of his ear was the only tell that he was waiting for her to respond. She stubbornly pressed her lips together; she did not trust herself to read him when there was a constant blur around his edges, when there was such strain on her heart. It was his turn.

He glanced up at their long shadows, entwined together behind her on the blood-stained marble of the promenade. She saw the light reflected in his eyes, and the dancing darkness.

“You have been so patient,” he continued at last. “I have been trying to determine some way to show you what that means to me. For now, the best gift I can offer is…the truth.”

He fell silent for a moment, breathing and considering the path laid before him, and she found that she held her breath in anticipation. It seemed that all the light in the world served to frame his figure; the wind’s only purpose was to push him closer to her, but neither of them moved.

“You have become important to me—more important than I could have ever imagined.”

The night went very still around them. She suddenly could not look at him, but the thought of missing any important tells, any signs of his dangerous thoughts, was more painful than looking at his face. So she blinked up at him like a startled halla, frozen and afraid. The golden leaves on her shoulders shivered.

“You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade.” He huffed a short, quiet laugh at himself. “I considered myself to be the last of my People…walking as a Dreamer might in a world of Tranquil. But time and again you have shown me that you carry the embers of Elvhenan in your spirit. Where you walk, flames catch.”

His voice had become full and lilting—not so unlike the distant string music of Celene’s orchestra—and it robbed her of breath. She pressed the hand that held the Anchor to her chest and tried to feel her heart beat to reassure herself that she was alive, and she found it thundering with such panic that her chest hurt. She could not help but hear the same soft voice with which he spoke to her in front of an eluvian, eyes aglow with a divinity she had never known before or since.

“I have been afraid for you,” Solas said. “You embody so much of what I once wished for myself…ideals that I held, and abandoned, and forgot. I know where the pursuit of those ideals led me, and I have feared that you might be broken by them as I have been broken.”

“What is there to lose, really?” she asked him hoarsely.

Solas fixed her with a look then of such ancient bitterness and enigmatic humor that she would never forget. “My pride,” he told her with a self-deprecating smile, but it faded quickly. “You.”

She held out her unharmed hand, and he took it in both of his own. He was warm, almost hot to the touch despite the chill of the night, and as he ran his thumbs across the back of her hand he spread fire up her arm.

“Death would be your freedom from this impossible burden. Death, Tranquility, to release yourself from the consequences of your failures or the exhausting knowledge of your futility,” he said, as evenly as he could to soften the blow.

“And the pride of being _right_ that the world is not worth saving would protect you from the pain of yours,” she replied.

“I have been afraid for you,” Solas said, softer each time he said it. “What you would attempt, what you want the world to do, is impossible. The higher you climb, the more hope I have—and the further there is for both of us to fall, Ixchel. I spent much of my time away contemplating whether to dissuade you or encourage you.”

Ixchel curled her fingers around his wrist. His pulse fluttered beneath her touch, drummed urgently in his veins. He kept her hand in his own, but raised one to caress the blossoms now tangled hopelessly in her hair. There was no smile in his eyes at the sight, none of the fondness the crown had invoked that night at Suledin Keep.

“But for as much as I have been afraid for you, I have also been afraid _of_ you. ‘For all you shall serve, and for all you shall lead.’ Do you not think that the Evanuris, those respected leaders, generals, elders, did not once swear similarly to their People? But even Mythal, the All-Mother, placed the vallaslin on hers.”

Ixchel thought something slid into place within her: a missing piece she had been searching for for so long. The shape of it surprised her, but once she examined it, it had been foolish of her to overlook it. She had been very foolish of late, it seemed. She felt, as she gazed into his gray eyes, that she finally saw him clearly.

“‘Who watches the watchers?’” she echoed.

He could not seem to help the slight, sad smile that played on his lips again.

 _“I_ did, once.”

Her heart stopped beating for an interminable moment, and she thought, hysterically, that it would be utter irony, utter cruelty, for her heart to give out entirely and for her second lease on life to end right at the moment she might have been waiting for for so long.

“Everything I have told you of Elvhenan… I know it to be true because I lived it. Every worry I have for you is born from a thousand years of watching, fighting, despairing, as even the best of the Evanuris fell prey to the desire for control.”

He tightened his grip on her hands, an uncharacteristic tell of the weight of what he was about to say. Then he let her go entirely—leaving her free to flee, perhaps, in light of what he was about to reveal.

Ixchel had always _known_ the sorrow, the grief, the _age,_ in him, even when he had done his best to hide it. But now that he wanted her to see it, now that he had allowed himself to drop the mask, she saw the true extent to which it had swallowed him like the Void. She swayed in the face of its yawning depth, but she did not run.

“I sought to set my People free from slavery,” he said, barely audible above the roar of blood in her ears and the bonfires behind them. “I broke the chains of all who wished to join me, and the false gods called me ‘Fen’Harel’—an insult I took as a badge of honor.”

He searched her face, and she wondered if he recognized that she understood, she accepted. She hoped that he did. She did not flee, for she was not afraid of the Dread Wolf.

“When the Evanuris finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. My People fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down,” he continued, a harsh note of blame entering his voice. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed, and when I woke, still weak, a year ago, I found myself faced with the futility, the destruction, of my decisions. I sought a chance to undo it all, to restore my world.”

Her breath caught as the wind shifted. It blew smoke in their direction, tugged at his sleeves, sent her skirts swirling. It swept her away into dizzying panic: there it was—the truth, the truth, the hopeless truth—

“And then… I met you.”

The words began to pour from him ceaselessly as though they were an incantation:

“Here you stand, facing the same futile choices of the Evanuris. Here you stand, a rival to one who would claim godhood from those trapped in the Black City beyond the Veil.” He shook his head slowly at his own accusation. _“Telanadas,_ I have told you. But _this is_ the inevitability. We are an endless entropy towards self-destruction. And yet…”

Ixchel had been filled with a rising sense of dread at the steady pace of his words, as though they were hurtling toward the same disastrous conclusion they had arrived at once upon another lifetime.

“Yet here you stand, with _Felgaral Dir’vhen’an_ in your hair, and when faced with the futility of your mission, you do not act as gods do. You say you would not take choice away from the world either through slavery, or through destruction. And…I believe you.” His eyes glistened as he looked down at her. “You have even made me question my desire to restore my People.”

It was impossible that she had any tears left after all that she had gone through, and yet she felt her eyes prick once more. She blinked them away, for as much as she could through the fog of exhaustion, she wanted to memorize his features—the look of sincerity, the look of awe—and immortalize this impossible moment.

“That is what I spoke of, with the Wisdom that _you_ saved,” he said in a voice that shook. “You have shown me that there is value in this world. For a while, I thought, though it may rob me of any joy I might take in my duty, it was no different a sacrifice than any other I have made in one hopeless battle after another.”

Ixchel heard two voices as he spoke, felt two overlaid hearts beat within her breast, felt the pain of two very different admissions cut into her soul. Things _are different,_ she tried to tell herself. _He has never been the monster he thinks he is. He’s trying to learn. He has never admitted fear before._

_Things are different._

And so Ixchel forced herself to reach for him, the destroyer of more worlds than even he knew.

He allowed her to embrace his trembling frame. She rested her ear against his chest and heard his heart thundering in the cage of his ribs so hard it might escape them. Never more than now was he was a fearful creature trapped in her arms, and she dreaded the moment he might shake himself free to flee.

“But what _Pride_ is it,” he said above her head, “to believe I could take the fate of a world in my hands twice over? Though I would not style myself a ruler, I was seeking the very same control as the false gods I cast down. And so I ran from you, Ixchel, every time you have asked me to walk with you on a path of hope. Because to follow you would be to abandon my own _din’an’shiral,_ and to look past my pride, and admit that I was no better than those I destroyed a world to defeat. Because even now I am afraid to put my fears aside and trust you.”

 _Ar lath ma,_ her heart cried, but that was not enough. It was a cheap and pale shadow of how his admission impacted her, and there was nothing she could say or do to communicate it.

“You were _solas_ first,” she said into his chest. “It was against your nature.”

He drew a sharp breath. Her own heart pressed against her ribs as she danced treacherously close to the truth. For now, he did not question her further.

Instead, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and pressed his cheek against her hair, careful of the Ardent Blossom. He took a steadying breath against the shivers that wracked his frame; But instead, he whispered, “Do you know how beautiful and broken you are?”

“No more so than the rest of the world,” she assured him.

He chuckled breathlessly. “I will not quarrel with you any more,” he agreed. “Perhaps you are right, and that is why I have named you _Rogasha’ghi’lan.”_

Ixchel tightened her hold on him and shifted to look up at him a little through her lashes. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Thank you for coming back.”

-:-:-:-:-

Solas spoke of his night as they walked back to their lodgings in the upper quarter. He had observed some of Briala’s people performing a drop in the exterior gardens and decided to pursue the lead into the servants’ quarters. Then, just as he had said, he had found the Venatori forces and the murdered servants and decided to stay and coordinate a defense against the assault. After that, he had scoured the guest wings with Fenris, and then had, in fact, returned upstairs for some time.

When he overheard the talk of her as a divine creature, speaking with the wisdom of the Maker himself and calling for a new world order, he had fled back to the gardens below the servants’ quarters to contemplate the very same matters they had just discussed in there here-and-now. That accounted for most of his absence in the night.

Then, Florianne had spoken of Corypheus and his motivations—and Solas had been well and truly shaken by the parallels he had heard to the Evanuris, and the temptation of power he feared Ixchel might fall prey to.

After the speeches and the explosion, Ixchel had vanished into the alienage. Everyone split up to search for her, and he had found Samson and a small group of Templars fleeing through the city. He followed them at a distance and saw them about to board a vessel. Solas had strayed too close, as he tried to find the name of the vessel so that Leliana might be able to later track its destination, and caught the attention of a Red Templar Shriek.

Samson had proved to be a powerful combatant and Solas had resorted to some quite underhanded tactics before he fled. He had, in fact, spied the name of the ship. Then, he had spent the entire rest of the day trekking back to Halamshiral.

When he entered the alienage he had found that the fires had been put out, the dead had been gathered and tallied, and the name of the Herald of Andraste was on the lips of every living being in the city. He had, indeed, heard that the people were already calling the promenade _‘The Herald’s Way,’_ after the bloody footprints she had left in her wake. The sight of the Anchor’s progressed consumption had alarmed him such that, on top of all his other concerns, he had felt moved to confront her about his doubts.

 _In the most Solas way possible,_ she thought. A bit of goading, a temptation, a challenge while she was in her most fragile state to date, perhaps.

“‘One tastes like the Blight, and one tastes like deathroot,’” he murmured her words back to her now. “That was when I knew I must accept…you walk this path with open eyes. You deserve my trust, if not my faith.”

They walked together with Ixchel tucked under his arm, and his thumb rubbed warm circles against her shoulder as he spoke. Her hand was warm in the space just above his hip, and she felt shrouded and warm in his aura. After the harrowing night, her day of self-doubt, guilt, and regret, and the fraught conversations she’d had all evening—least of all with him—the utter security of his embrace was as welcome a relief as when he had pulled the Anchor’s magic out of her shoulder and back into her palm.

She was half-asleep against his shoulder when they reached their quarters. Ixchel didn’t even realize that he’d taken her to his room until the door closed behind them and she realized she wasn’t in her own suite. He peeled himself off of her and reached behind him to unclasp his gorget.

Ixchel found herself frozen in the daze of her exhaustion, and she looked shyly down at her bloody feet. Just the previous day, she had felt like a queen in her own right. Now, the sight of her finery—the golden leaves on her shoulders, the scales on her hips, the fine, soft Dalish banner weave and the pyrophite cuirass beneath—only made her wonder which Evanuris Solas really saw in her.

Solas’s warm, dry hands slipped beneath her chin to cup her face, his fingers curling behind her ears, and he tilted her face up to look at him. He had removed his shirt, and she saw that there were now angry red claw marks streaked across his abdomen and around his side. They had seen some healing magic, but they had gone deep. One of his arms had been burned as well. She was slightly more preoccupied by how _low_ his leggings hung on his lithe, bony hips.

“I expect that Cole may be nearby,” he murmured down to her. His breath was cool on her cheeks and lips. “Would you like me to find him for you, _lethallan?”_

She leaned into his palm, but she nodded. “Forgive me,” she replied.

He gave her a glittering smile. “I am not upset at you,” he said, even as he tucked a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear.

Ixchel exhaled heavily and reached up to wrap her fingers around his wrist. It took every ounce of strength she had left to pull him off of her without kissing his palm, without following the long line of his arm to his broad shoulder, reaching for his hip—

But that was not what she _really_ wanted right now. She already won that, and she could not afford to be greedy.

Not after everything she had done to get here.

 _“Nuvas ema ir’enastela, lethallin,”_ she said fervently. “I will not betray your trust.”

“No,” he replied. He swept his thumb across the back of her hand, but his eyes were full of something a little more potent. “I don’t think you will, Champion.” He released her and stepped a way to open the door for her again. “ _On nydha, Ixchel.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated go GnaCat, who very astutely picked up on the culmination of this arc and the consequences of many things Ixchel and Solas have faced both with each other and against the world. Seriously, I was kind of flabbergasted by GnaCat's canny assessment of the situation particularly when I was literally about to post this chapter...
> 
> As much as they are drawn together, as much as they're attracted to one another, at every opportunity Ixchel has _pushed_ and _pushed_ Solas. With every perhaps too-on-point speech or plea or appeal, it was only a matter of time before Solas picked up on one of two things. Imshael helped direct him to one conclusion in particular.
> 
> We'll see what it all means going forward. Thanks for tagging along thus far, for all your comments, theorizing, emotions... 
> 
> Telanadas - nothing is inevitable  
> Felgaral Dir’vhen’an - “Blooming/Growing Promise/Oath” / Ardent Blossom  
> Ar lath ma - I love you  
> solas - pride  
> din'an'shiral - path of/to death  
> Rogasha’ghi’lan - Brave Leader/Guide  
> Nuvas ema ir’enastela - May you have great blessings. (thank you very much)  
> On nydha - good night


	73. Bring Me the Heart of Snow White

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/4/20

They did find Cole in her room, waiting. Ixchel had no energy left for any more thought or feeling; she did a very inadequate attempt to clean herself, and then Cole opened his arms and let her nestle up against him atop the covers of her bed. Falling asleep with Cole was always easy; with every breath, it seemed that any warmth or weight he provided as comfort spread further across and into her body. In his arms she was weightless and adrift with little sense of urgency or pain or fear.

That night, she hardly got a moment to enjoy it before she fell into deep unconsciousness.

If she dreamed, if she wandered the Fade, she did not remember it at all when she woke an interminable time later. Cole was still with her, dozing against her back; sunlight poured in through the open window—and she blearily guessed that it was evening again. She floundered in the timelessness of waking for a moment, then pushed herself upright and swung her legs off the side of the Orlesian bed.

Cole’s hand crept out to stop her. “Your feet,” he murmured.

Ixchel had little choice but to walk over to the washroom on her own two feet, but she did so gingerly, at least. She stripped herself of her party armor and removed the Ardent Blossom from her hair, and then she began the painful process of unwinding her leg wrappings as she drew a bath.

Her legs and feet were swollen and mottled with bruises and cuts. The healers had done their best, but she knew they would not have approved of her _dancing and running around a demolition zone_ as she had done. In retrospect, she had no idea how she had accomplished such feats. She certainly paid for it with the mortal agony of lowering them into the water.

She scrubbed blood and ash out of her hair, dug it out of her fingernails and from behind her ears, and she wished she could wash away the doubts and regrets of her past several days just as easily. She soaked in hot water for another unthinkably long time and hoped that her aches would dissolve away before she had to move again. Some did, but most did not.

As she dried herself, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror propped in the corner of the washroom. She padded over to it and wiped away the steam that had collected there, and she looked into the weary face of the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, Champion of the People, _Rogasha’ghi’lan._

Ixchel traced Dirthamen’s vallaslin in the mirror, and the scars that tore through her face, and the lines of her ears. As she did, she wondered what the girl she had been when she began all of this would think of her now.

_And then…I met you._

She hadn’t thought it would be possible, to be the type of person who caused _Solas_ to _doubt._ For so many years, she had looked at herself in the mirror and questioned: _did he really love me? why wasn’t I enough? am I not strong enough? am I not smart enough? am I too…virtuous?_

He had rejected her countless times: when she had first pieced together on her own that he was Fen’Harel, he had refused to tell her more of their People’s history, or his plans; when he took the Anchor and her arm, he had refused to let her join him, refused to let her love him, refused to kill her. In the years that followed, no matter how she begged, pleaded, chased, or raged, he never wavered in his determination to shut her out.

He had been certain all along of himself and his plan to tear down the Veil ‘to restore the Elvhen.’ He had been convinced, and even when he said she had shown him her world and her people were real, he had been too proud to change course or to admit there could be another way.

But now, for all the terrors of the past night, for all the tension, for all the flaws that Halamshiral had revealed—for all that Solas had seen of her broken bits and haunted corners—he had trusted her with the truth. He had been _afraid._ He had _worried._ He had _cared._ In the end, he had looked upon her and decided: _you are worth the truth._

Not only that—he admitted that she had made him question whether his plan was worth pursuing.

Hadn’t that been what she wanted?

She put her palm beside the unsmiling face in the mirror. She could identify no happiness, no joy—not even, really, relief—in her eyes. She felt uneasy and distrusting of the mere concept of those other emotions, as though she wasn’t sure she had done anything yet to deserve them.

Yet even so, she felt…something. No voices in her cried: _Futile!_ Solas had spoken of her futile tasks ahead, but she could spare no thought to _new world orders_ and _inspiring the masses_ or, even, for the moment, the tragedies of Halamshiral. She did not even think about Corypheus.

She had made Solas question his plan. He had _spoken_ of the folly of his Pride. He had acknowledged that he was on the path to becoming like the Evanuris. He had acknowledged that he _had_ been running from her.

_“I have a world to save.”_

_“And I am keeping you from doing so?”_

_“No. I just don’t have it in me to chase you, Solas.”_

It was a heavy burden, and it made her feel lighter to carry it. But now that he had come to her, she could not afford to drive him away. And though he had questioned his plan, although he had acknowledge that by following her he would have to abandon his din’an’shiral…she knew how hard it was to truly let go of something so dark and deeply ingrained. How often had she though she had removed whatever despair-shaped growths might have scarred her heart, only to find she had forgotten how to live without them? Like now.

She had forgotten how to accept a victory like this.

Ixchel tied up her hair with the Ardent Blossom once again and dressed in the loosest dress she owned. She carefully slipped her head through a high-necked cape to hide her burns and to stay cozy and warm whenever she did, eventually, venture forth. Then she returned to Cole and sat beside him on the bed.

“I don’t know how to feel, Cole,” she told him.

“How about happy?” he offered.

She took up his hat from the bedside and put it on his head with an affectionate pat. “Hadn’t even considered it.”

He twinkled at her. “Neither had he.”

Ixchel directed him a small smile, but even to her it felt painted on. She lay back against the headboard and looked up at the ceiling. “I want to,” she said quietly, as though that might convince her heart and her body and whatever else was in charge of _feeling._ “I want to be happy.”

Cole held her hand for a long while, humming softly while she breathed and collected herself.

At last, she stirred, and Cole helped her stand. She left her rooms and went in search of Dorian.

He was in his quarters, and it seemed that he had also only recently awoken and bathed. He, however, did _not_ look well-rested at all. His hair was mussed and damp, his mustache was limp, and he was wrapped in a thick robe that absolutely did not hide the bite mark on his neck.

They looked each other over from top to bottom.

“Well, the sight of you is a relief and a wonder, as always, Ixchel.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” she replied lightly. “Are you occupied?’

“Not anymore,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows, and he drew aside to allow her in. She went to take up a spot on the chaise laid along the wall and he came to join her, ignoring personal space and leaning right up against her. He crossed one knee over the other, baring a leg.

“How are you doing, _pretiousa?_ Bull was concerned that you were blaming yourself for what happened to the alienage.”

She looked down at her hands. “I…”

It certainly was a _task_ to find words for how she felt. Because it was true. It was undeniably true that Corypheus had planned to stoke or spur the attack on the alienage because he knew it would hurt her.

But it was also true that he wanted chaos, and this, certainly, had been chaos. And it was also true that, likely, there would be enough malcontents among Gaspard’s forces to wreak nearly as much havoc on their own, especially after Gaspard’s execution. It was all true, and it still hurt, but Bull and Fenris—and yes, Dorian, so long ago in the snow on the way to Skyhold—were right.

“The world is bigger than I, and it laughs at all the things we think we know,” she echoed back to him now. “I will never be able to rid the world of cruelty. That doesn’t mean it _shouldn’t hurt_ to see it. But I can’t blame myself for existing, for trying to thwart Corypheus, for encouraging the world to change and for the backlash that might follow. And for my part, I did everything I could to prevent a darker tomorrow, and I did help many people, and _I_ am ultimately the only person I can control.”

As she spoke, put it to words, made it real outside her own head, she felt her heart stutter back into motion. She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face now. She clenched her fists and blinked away tears. “And I am fortunate enough to be surrounded by a great number of people who I do not control but who have been willing to stand up for what’s right, to protect people, and to chase cruelty out of this world alongside me.”

She leaned into his shoulder in turn and looked up at him. “Are you proud of me?”

Dorian smirked and wrapped an arm around her. “Beyond _words, mula,”_ he sighed. “That is what I call _evolution_.”

“And how has your relationship with _the Iron Bull_ evolved?” she mused. He poked her in the side viciously, and she shrieked with unbidden laughter. “Dorian!”

“I’m sure you don’t want me to ask you about any of the men vying for your affections either!”

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “Go ahead, Dorian. There’s nothing to talk about, I’m sure.”

Dorian chuckled sadly. “Oh, you didn’t have a _single_ romantic liaison during the whole of that beautiful ball? No dancing of any significance?”

“Pretty sure I only danced with Florianne,” she admitted. “I was a little busy.”

Her dear friend sighed for her and shook his head. “We’ll just need to throw another party, then.” At her short laugh, he offered her a smaller smile. “Someone must remind you to be a woman. Particularly after _you_ reminded all of us with that beautiful ensemble. No man could take their eyes off of you, Ixchel. Truly, one must imagine that the elves of the ancient empire would have been jealous.”

Her smile turned wry, but she refrained from making any telling comments. “I felt beautiful,” she agreed instead. “It’s a shame it’s soaked in blood now.”

Dorian shook his head. “It was simply a different kind of beauty,” he corrected. “In another world, perhaps I might even partake myself! But you, warrior princess, have left your mark on the hearts and minds and _eyes_ of Halamshiral.”

“It’s a new world,” she said softly.

“When I heard the Inquisition supports Free Mages, I thought, ‘What’s next? _Elves_ running Halamshiral? Cows milking farmers?’” Dorian rubbed her shoulder. “Maybe there is hope for our movement back home.”

Ixchel put her hand over his on her shoulder, and she gave it a squeeze. “I believe in you and Maevaris,” she said.

“That makes two of the three, then,” he replied cheerfully. “Well, _mula,_ what next?”

She wriggled around to put her legs up in his lap and leaned back to look up at the ceiling. That was a good question. There were many people awaiting her at Skyhold—most importantly, Thom Rainier—but Solas’s lead on Samson’s flight was at the forefront of her mind. She had no doubt that he had returned to the Temple of Dumat, and she thought, perhaps, if she could catch the operation there unawares, she might be able to spare Maddox’s life and find a way to disable Samson’s armor sooner than later.

But Ixchel was also certain that Corypheus wouldn’t be satisfied with the burning of Halamshiral as a retributive strike against her. It would be imperative to reach the Western Approach and thwart the Grey Warden sacrifice as quickly as possible. How many Wardens could she save? Perhaps she could send them all to Weisshaupt for safety. Perhaps Hal could help them, and Hawke and Fenris could go with them…

She ran a hand over her face. “I need to be in three places at once, I think,” she said.

And then she froze.

She dropped her hand.

Ixchel stared at Dorian.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you suggesting time magic? Is that why you’re looking at me?”

“No,” she said quickly. “That would be foolish.” Ixchel reached for him and used his arm to help her sit up again. “I need to work this out immediately. No time to waste. Lives at stake, the usual,” she said. “Oh, you’ll _love_ this, Dorian.”

“Is it dangerous and experimental magic? Some sort of sex act?” His lone eyebrow rose even higher. “You do have the most interesting knowledge base, and even more interesting friends,” he mused. “I can’t _wait._ Let me get dressed and I’ll accompany you wherever it is you’re about to limp off to.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel and Dorian went door-to-door to summon each of their companions to the war room. But when Ixchel reached Vivienne’s doors, she immediately sensed something was wrong; the First Enchanter's movements in the room seemed slow and uncertain, and when she finally greeted Ixchel, her normally tight, controlled expression was soft and exhausted.

“Viv, are you alright?” Ixchel asked under her breath.

“I believe I should be asking you that question,” the First Enchanter replied. “But…yes. I’m afraid I must ask you for help.”

She turned and Ixchel followed her inside, allowing the door to fall closed behind them. Vivienne picked up a letter from her desk; it had been sealed with stark purple wax, but Ixchel could not glimpse the heraldry before Vivienne unfolded it and glanced over its contents.

“There is an alchemical formula that I must complete,” Vivienne said, “but I have been unable to obtain a critical ingredient: the heart of a snowy wyvern.” She glanced up from the letter, and then her gaze slid away. “I had arranged to obtain one, but the Chevaliers working with me were killed at the front on the Exalted Plains.”

Ixchel tilted her head. “Is that where the wyvern is?”

“I believe so.” Vivienne tapped the letter against her mouth distractedly. “They’re quite rare, and exceedingly dangerous. Their venom is the most potent of any wyvern. I would not ask for your help, especially after such tragedy has befallen us here, unless it were a matter of the utmost importance. Ordinary hunters would not make the attempt—the risk is too great.”

“Believe it or not, Vivienne, I’ve faced one before,” Ixchel said, trying not to smile. She had found it in Ghilan'nain's Grove in the Exalted Plains, and she had killed it after it attacked Bull out of _nowhere._ She hadn't even known it had useful properties. “I won’t waste any time, Vivienne. It is the least I can do for you. You’ve done so much for me.”

Vivienne looked at her with an almost startled look upon her face. “You… Of course you would.” She pressed the letter to her chest, then placed it back on her desk “Thank you, my dear.”

Ixchel held out her hand for Vivienne. When Vivienne took it, Ixchel covered their joined hands with the Anchor, and she looked up at the Iron Lady with the utmost sincerity. “I’ll go over this at the meeting, but I think we’ll be needing to split everybody up. If you tell me where you need to go, where I can deliver this wyvern heart for you, I can work that into the plan.”

“It necessitates a trip back to my former estate, Ghislain,” Vivienne said guardedly.

“Perfect.” Ixchel nodded. “I think we can arrange it with the utmost discretion.”

Vivienne bowed her head. “If you can do this, I would be…more than grateful. I appreciate your urgency on the matter.”

“Then let’s go.”

Ixchel led the way back to their on-the-go war room, where her merry crew had assembled: Bull, Dorian, Varric, Fenris, Solas, Cole, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine were spread out through the room chatting and waiting. When Vivienne and Ixchel joined them, everyone fell silent.

“Well, we’re alive,” Ixchel announced. “Congratulations, everyone.” There were a few chuckles, and she shifted weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. She had become well-practiced at inspiring speeches, but motivating and coordinating were two entirely different tactics. And there was a lot to coordinate now. “We have averted the Blighted future Dorian and I witnessed at Redcliffe, and we’ve somehow managed to do the impossible—make some progress for the non-noble class in Orlais, particularly the elves.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m proud of us, and I’m grateful for everyone’s efforts at the Winter Palace—and in the aftermath.” She bit her lip, pausing for a moment, then nodded. “I know I’m not the only one who felt like the ground was ripped out from beneath them. We saw too much cruelty, and carnage, and I’ll be haunted by it for a long time. But we _have_ done well here. We _did_ help. But I think we’ve seen just the first reprisal,” she said.

Ixchel approached the war table with its maps and markers, and she began moving pieces around. “We know that something terrible is happening to the Orlesian Grey Wardens, who have been gathering in the west. We know that Raleigh Samson has become one of Corypheus’s most formidable generals—both in his martial capability, and in his coordination and proliferation of the red lyrium operation. And we’re still pursuing Calpernia, the leader of Corypheus’s mages, the Venatori.” She turned. “I don’t think we can afford to differentiate between threats, here. We must address them nearly simultaneously, if possible. And unfortunately, I think that means I will be saying goodbye to many of you, for some time.”

Her announcement seemed to take most of them aback. She addressed Fenris first. “Hawke and Warden Stroud should be deep in the Western Approach by now. I would have you and Varric meet them, help establish our forward camps there, and prepare for some way to take the Wardens away from Corypheus. Hawke and Stroud may have a better idea, having been there for so long.” She offered Fenris a small smile, and he nodded.

“Then, we need to track Samson north. He fled across the waters on a ship—we’ll track that. But let’s start putting our heads together here about where Corypheus’s holdings might _really_ be.” She crossed her arms. “Let’s start with the Chantry tales. Canticle of Silence, right?”

Leliana immediately sprang into a recitation. Ixchel raised her eyebrows—it was a _dissonant_ Canticle after all—but listened attentively as Leliana sang it, softly, in full.

When she was done, Ixchel looked back at Leliana. “You have met the Architect yourself,” she said, “with Morrigan. It was a High Priest of Urthemiel, a unique darkspawn. These Magisters Sidereal were real, we can assume, then. They were the Conductor, the Architect, the Watchman, the Forgewright, the Appraiser, the Augur, and the Madman. We know Corypheus was sealed by the Wardens using Hawke’s blood—but before that, what was used?”

“The blood of Dumat,” Varric said with disgust.

“And what is Calpernia a call-back to?” Ixchel asked.

“A priestess of Dumat,” Leliana supplied.

Ixchel gestured as she spoke. “I would argue Corypheus is then the Conductor of Silence. He has some tie to Dumat. I know Tevinter’s old empire shined from horizon to horizon, but we know Samson was running north. If we can track that ship, and then what happened at the port—wherever it docked—and where its passengers went then, we can narrow down our search. Because I believe we’re looking for a location with a strong connection to Dumat.”

She pointed now at Dorian, Vivienne, and Bull. “Samson is a _formidable_ foe. I felt it when I saw him—there’s something more than just the red lyrium augmenting his ability,” she said. “It might be dangerous. I’d like the three of you to head across the water while Leliana and Josephine pull every lead we can, in case we can find a trail.”

The Inquisitor then addressed Leliana again. “I plan on taking Solas, Cassandra, and Cole with me back to the Exalted Plains. Maybe we can find whatever it was the Venatori were searching for, and gain another lead—either on what Corypheus might be planning with the Wardens, or about their operations in the north.”

“Is this wise, Inquisitor?” Cullen asked. “You are stretching your inner circle, your most trusted allies, to the furthest corners of Orlais.”

She pointed at him. “And that is why we should begin mustering troops for war, Commander. I don’t know what we’ll find, but this incident in Halamshiral proves that we must be prepared to mobilize at a moment’s notice, in any direction—because Corypheus doesn’t care about timing, or target.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly now that she had gotten the bulk of the logistics out of the way. “But what happens when we _do_ figure out where he’ll strike next, or where we should focus?” she asked rhetorically. “That’s where having Morrigan and Briala on our side is so perfect.” She glanced at Solas, then at Varric. “Briala controls a large network of eluvians. Hundreds.”

Varric’s eyes widened. Solas remained impassive as ever. Leliana drew a breath behind her.

“Eluvians are ancient artifacts from Elvhenan,” Ixchel said, “that look like mirrors. When activated, they lead to a place beyond the Fade that connects _all_ eluvians. That was how my ancestors spread their empire so far without roads. And that was how Briala’s game of sabotage was so flawless, across the empire.” She pointed now at the three distant markers she had placed. “We need to get eluvians from Briala, and they need to be brought along with each group. To protect the eluvians and transport them once we’ve traveled _through_ them, each of you will need to take trusted Inquisition troops with you. But when the call comes, you should be able to activate the eluvian, step through it, and then step out of another eluvian and join us.”

Ixchel looked up at everyone. “Morrigan will be joining the Inquisition. Celene has offered her services, and Morrigan and I have spoken some about what she can offer. First and foremost, is she has an eluvian that Briala _does not_ control that she plans to bring to Skyhold. She has to transport it, first, but once it arrives I’ll need to stop there briefly—collect Blackwall, deal with the terrorists, and I’m sure help Lady Montilyet out with some diplomatic and trade deals that might crop up in the aftermath of our time here in Halamshiral.”

Solas raised his chin as her eyes swept across the crowd of upturned faces. He was appraising her with the slightest smile; she ignored him. Dorian was smoothing his mustache as he considered her, but his eyes were distant—probably thinking about what he knew of ancient Tevinter ruins and their locations. Vivienne, as muted as her mood seemed to be, seemed to have found a spark of hope in her. And Varric and Fenris were looking at each other, communicating something silently with their eyes, while Cassandra and Cullen stared at her with open mouths.

Josephine, Leliana, and Bull took everything in stride. Leliana was chuckling softly to herself, while Josephine scribbled away, smiling, on her notepad.

Bull cracked his knuckles. “Alright. Hunting some ‘Vints and Red Templars? Now _that’s_ party I can get behind.”

“What do you mean, ‘collect Blackwall’?” Cassandra asked tersely.

Ixchel straightened up. “I mean pardon him, and ask him to fight with us just as he always has. It doesn’t matter to me whether he’s Blackwall or Rainier. It’s probably a good thing that he’s not a real Warden. He’s a good sword, he’s been a friend, and I,” she said firmly, “believe that people can change. His remorse is real. Which brings me to one last thing.”

She put her hands on her hips and tried to meet each of their eyes. “When each of you were new to the Inquisition, I wondered how any of us would ever get along,” she said. “Granted, the Fallow Mire isn’t a friendly excursion, but I’m inspired and _very_ thankful that our party has come a long way toward mutual tolerance. Now more than ever, we need to keep to that.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “We are all friends here. We are all good people, fighting for the good of all peoples, all nations, in the face of this existential threat. And _especially_ after our performance at the Winter Palace, I have faith in each and every one of you. Please, grant each other the same benefit. I won’t be there to chaperone.”

“No promises, unless the Iron Bull learns to bathe!” Dorian huffed.

“I do, sometimes,” Bull said dryly. “You want to watch, don’t you?”

“I’d rather stand upwind.” Dorian crossed his arms and turned.

“Great,” Ixchel said. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”


	74. Fen’Harel Enasal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: Cloud Atlas End Title
> 
> The lyrics in this chapter are from "The Grace of the Valar" from the LotR soundtrack. It's beyond me to translate English, let alone Sindarin, into Elvhen poetry. But let's just say it just speaks to ixchel's soul and so she understands, and we understand.
> 
> If you haven't read _Masked Empire _by now, you probably should.__  
>  -  
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! The numbers continue to amaze me, as do your insightful comments! much love to you all
> 
> *california burns in the background*
> 
> 12/4/20

Ixchel took Solas with her to meet Briala. She wasn’t sure if it was wise or not, but she supposed that erring on the side of, “Better keep my eyes on him,” wasn’t the worst thing she could do to Fen’Harel.

She had sent a messenger ahead to warn Briala somewhat of their approach, and then she had changed into a slightly more presentable outfit—leather armor, breeches, a cloak, but her injured feet still bare—to meet the Marquise. It wasn’t as though Celene had snapped her fingers and found an empty mansion for Briala to occupy, and Ixchel didn’t think that Briala was dumb enough to make such a move after making it so clear that she was trying to earn the loyalty of the common people of Halmashiral. Instead, Briala had taken up residence in the upper floor of an inn not far from the promenade, and her messengers and agents milled about in a constant stream of comings and goings, along with representatives from the alienage and a handful of minor nobles, merchants, and artisans.

The entire upper floor was emptied when Ixchel arrived, and they were deposited upstairs to meet the Marquise privately.

“When I offered you use of the eluvians, I didn’t expect you to take me up _quite_ so soon,” Briala said, her back turned to her guests. She stood before a rather modest frame for an eluvian—hardly a carving upon it, barely gilded, and not much taller than they were.

“Neither did I,” Ixchel demurred. “I would not ask if I was not certain I needed them.”

Briala glanced back at her over her shoulder. “Hmm,” she mused. “You have been made familiar with eluvians, though I do not know how. And your companion?”

Ixchel didn’t look at Solas. He could lie better than she could, anyway.

“I have seen such things, in memories of Arlathan preserved in the Fade,” he said.

“Ah, then you, too, are a Dreamer.” Briala studied him closely. “A mentor of mine, who helped me rediscover the eluvian netowrk, spoke of how they might once have been used by our ancestors. The land beyond this mirror we believe to have been fabricated entirely by magic, set apart from both the Fade and the material world—and something about it seems to cause non-elves harm.”

Briala raised her hand to touch the sleeping glass. “We pass through the Crossroads regularly, so I will know if the network is disrupted, or if you interrupt any of our movements.”

“Fair enough,” Ixchel said. “Are many of your agents permitted through the eluvians, or only the most trusted?”

The Marquise smirked. “No one else knows the pass phrase,” she said. “I personally escort every agent through. It does not take very long, so why not see to it myself?” She turned back to the mirror. Her eyes sparkled behind her mask in her burnished reflection, and Ixchel smiled at the sight—because Briala, like she herself, still had not gotten over the awe at their ancestors’ magic.

 _“Fen’Harel enasal,”_ Briala said, just loud enough for Ixchel and Solas to hear.

Solas startled slightly beside Ixchel, but Briala could not see it in the reflection, for the eluvian had come alive in a swirl of purples and blues and golds. When Ixchel glanced up at Solas, she found a strange look on his face—an uneven smile, a slight frown. A breath escaped him, but he did not look at her.

He stepped forward beside Briala.

“To pass through the eluvians…” He tilted his head back. “Or the few of them that are left…”

Briala looked up at him. “You are in for a treat, I think,” she said, and then she passed through.

Solas went next, without any of the hesitation Ixchel knew every first-timer had with the artifacts. Ixchel followed through the spray of immaterial magic and light and couldn’t help the smile on her face.

For as troubled a relationship she might have with mirrors, she didn’t think she would ever _not_ be in awe of this magic.

It was cool around her, encasing her briefly before bursting. But unlike any other time she had passed through an eluvian—Ixchel _heard_ its magic in her soul just the same as she had heard lyrium, just the same as she could feel Solas from half a mile away. And when she stepped out into the Crossroads, this time, she did not see the fog of Morrigan’s pocket world or the shattered remains of the network Solas had stolen back from the Qunari. Rather, the path she stepped out onto was something like a mix of the two. The ground was lined with glowing runes, but beyond them the world was fogged and gray, murky and uncertain.

Briala eyed her without suspicion—mere curiosity.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” she asked. “I thought that with such magic, the world of our ancestors would have been beautiful for all. Why not have floors that scrubbed themselves?” Her lips curled back in a sad, bitter smile. “But we were an empire of our own. Elves enslaving elves. My mentor taught me to always ask: who will scrub the floors?”

“He sounds wise,” Solas said quietly.

“He never taught me why we _cannot_ have self-scrubbing floors,” Briala replied in a tart voice. “Can you, Dreamer?”

Ixchel looked up at Solas and felt her breath stolen from her. She had never seen him in this place—even his refuge, was a decidedly material place, and the Fade was separate even from here. But here, in this pocket world created by elves for elves, he was ever more the Evanuris she knew he was. His pale skin was ruddy with life, and the light in this place served to illuminate the elegant lines and planes of him like he were the most carefully installed sculpture. He seemed younger here, as he often did in his dreams of Arlathan. And he was beautiful.

His eyes did not swirl with unknowable power or the light of lyrium, but there were more colors in them—more shades of gray and blue than should possibly exist. She wanted to hold his face in her hands and count them.

“We have thought often about such things, I think,” Solas said and inclined his head to the side, in Ixchel’s direction, slipping his eyes to hers. “Mortal or immortal, there has never been a time where people did not fear the unknown, the uncontrollable. From servants to Circles, societies build themselves in chains—imagined or impressed.”

Briala considered him and nodded. “ _You_ sound wise. Like Felassan,” she said. Her eyes strayed to Ixchel, and something in her face softened. “He told me so many stories. One of the last times we spoke, he told me it was time to write my own. Do you know what I said?”

Ixchel shook her head.

“‘I’m not a god,’” Briala said knowingly. “And he said that the stories would decide that.” She gestured. “Come, Inquisitor. Let’s write your story.”

Briala turned and set off without a backward glance. Ixchel glanced again at Solas, who raised a single eyebrow at her. She raised one back at him, and he smiled, and Ixchel pursued Briala with some sense of relief. Her feet did not ache here; her throat did not scratch. She felt _whole_ , and she felt free.

Briala led them through another eluvian and into a large chamber lined with hundreds of eluvians. It was a bowl-shaped room, and the slopes were decorated with runes similar to the supplicant’s paths in the Temple of Mythal. At the center of the labyrinth was a pedestal. In another life, Briala and Michel had told her separately of their journey to this place, of the varterral and how Briala had walked the path and stolen the keystone to the eluvians. But neither had mentioned how utterly beautiful it was.

Giant braziers burned even now with veilfire, and the walls were supported by monumental statues of elves—sentinels and mages among them, but none of Andruil’s archers. She wondered at that as she turned in a slow circuit and took in the carvings, the symbolism that she recognized and the things that she didn’t. Some of the eluvians were massive, and some more more mundane, but all of them were _alive_.

The air hummed with the magic that called to something in her blood, her bones.

Ixchel took a deep breath of the cool, clean air. “Briala,” she said, “what did Felassan say this place was for?”

The Marquise couldn’t help her smile. “We had found this place by traveling through many burial chambers, and the chambers of those in _uthenera_ ,” she said. “He said that this was the main funeral hall, where there would be gatherings to honor the dead before burial, but also a place of supplication to the elders in their eternal dreams. He said that supplicants would walk the labyrinth and, if worthy, find the answers they sought in their dreams that night.”

Ixchel felt herself go a little limp. She looked down at the labyrinth and remembered the night after she had fled the Temple of Mythal with Morrigan.

She didn’t want to remember that night.

She whetted her lips and didn’t look at Solas. “I thank you again, Briala. If only for showing us this place.”

“The tear in the sky, the Blight…it threatens us all.” Briala shrugged. “Let me show you the three eluvians you will use. Remember where they are in reference to the pedestal.”

Ixchel did so—and she was certain that Solas would not forget, regardless.

“They do not lead to longer paths or chambers,” Briala said. “They simply lead out of eluvians that I have, conveniently, placed in Halamshiral for the time being. I will have their partners gathered and sent to you this evening.”

 _“Nuvas ema ir’enastela,” I_ xchel said.

“ _Fen’Harel enaste,”_ Solas said with a cheeky grin that Briala almost returned.

When they headed back in the direction they had come, Ixchel gave the chamber one last, long look. She had never dared return to the Temple of Mythal after that fateful day. She had never again seen such beautiful paths of contemplation. She had never again heard their sweet music.

Ixchel could only imagine how it might sound _now_.

“Marquise,” she murmured. “May I walk the labyrinth?”

“She could not change the pass phrase without being a mage, or acquiring a keystone,” Solas told Briala, who had hesitated. “I believe our Inquisitor simply has a keen interest in puzzles and our history.”

“Fair enough,” Briala replied. She went to sit upon a marble bench placed at the top of a slope, and she looked back at Solas. “Will you walk with her?”

“I do not seek any answers from the ancestors,” he said. “Go on, _da’len.”_ There was almost a smile in his eyes. “Pay your respects.”

She made a face at him. “Oh, it’s _da’len_ now?” she said sourly. “Fine, _da’fen_.”

Ixchel was pleased to see she had earned an obvious twitch of his ear, and she turned to face the entrance to the labyrinth.

Unlike the grand Temple of Mythal, the paths here were composed of small, step-sized runes. She did not need to leap from one to the next; she did not need to climb across barriers or lift gates. She simply needed to walk, and follow the path laid out before her—which was so easy when each step brought to her ears the song that played in her blood.

It wasn’t merely that her eyes saw the right runes alight ahead of her; it wasn’t merely that she felt the pull of the magic guiding her through the labyrinth if she was slow enough to let it. There was that _moreness_ to everything that made her an elf, here. Everything felt right. Taking a left here, or stepping diagonally, or taking a switchback—it was _right_ , in that moment, from moment to moment.

And in the great, empty hall, the runes echoed their song across the walls and back over her again.

As Ixchel walked the path, she reflected not on the elves in uthenera, but on her past life. For in some ways, wasn’t this like a dream, too? She had said goodbye to her life before, and she had found something new. Albeit unwillingly.

And all at once she realized what song she heard. She stopped in the center of the labyrinth and pressed the Anchor over her chest. Her heart raced, asynchronously with the slow dirge the Spirits had sang to the Dread Wolf at the end of the world.

With the realization came new words:

_Shadow lies between us;_  
_as you came, so you shall leave from us._  
_Time and storm shall scatter all things;_  
_sorrowing you must go,_  
_and yet you are not without hope_  
_for you are not bound to the circles of this world._  
_You are not bound to loss and silence._  
  
_All things must pass away._  
_All life is doomed to fade._

Ixchel looked up at Solas and found him only casually watching her. He was speaking with Briala in that rhythmic way of his, and Briala was watching him attentively. Ixchel wondered if Briala had ever understood this place as well as she had, so suddenly, in this moment. Or if perhaps Ixchel and Solas were the first and only ones in aeons. Solas realized she had stopped and was staring, and he gave her a questioning smile.

She pressed her hand harder into her chest and closed her eyes as the music begged her to continue.

She obeyed.

-:-:-:-:-

Stepping back out of the eluvian and into the material world was a sour reminder of the mountain of harm she’d accumulated across her body since coming to Halamshiral, and an incentive to leave it all behind.

They thanked Briala once more and bid their goodbyes and wished her luck on fighting for the growing and continued freedoms of the elves of Orlais. Then, they began their slow walk back to their own lodgings.

“You continue to surprise me, _lethallan,”_ Solas said. “You speak so knowingly of eluvians, yet you are as enraptured by them as if you had never seen one. Or the labyrinth. I can’t tell which is true.”

Ixchel gave him a grin but did not, cheekily, ask, _why not both?_ Though she dearly wanted to.

“We’re back to _lethallan,_ and not _da’len?”_ she teased.

Solas chuckled. “Why not both?” he asked, as though he had read her mind. “You are _very_ young to me.”

He suddenly seemed very grim.

“Whatever stories Briala was told about Fen’Harel don’t seem to have been so bad,” Ixchel offered as a change of topic. “Does that please you?”

“No.” He exhaled, long and slow, through his nose. His gaze dropped to the ground before them as they walked. “Felassan was one of my most trusted agents.”

Ixchel kept her gaze fixed on him sidelong. “Was.”

“He is dream-slain.” Solas closed his eyes as he walked. “I had heard stirrings of _mien’harel_ in Orlais. Felassan was my lieutenant here, and he fell in with Briala, to observe… When her fate led her to the eluvians, he was meant to get the pass phrase from her. Instead…” He sighed, and in that moment, he looked immeasurably older than he ever had. _“Vyn esaya gera assan I’mar’av’ingala, Fen’Harel.”_

Ixchel waited.

“…I am angry, _lethallan,”_ he murmured.

“Do you need to punch something?” When he snorted, she spread her arms. “I can take it.”

“I know you can,” he replied. “I have seen you absorb blows that would flatten Qunari.” He shook his head. “No. I will punch myself with the truth.”

Ixchel stared at him. “Does that sound more poetic in Elvhen?”

She was again proud to have coaxed a smirk from him. He ran his fingers around the shell of his ear as it faded.

“‘His friend had to die, because he thought they were people,’” Ixchel murmured. “‘A slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf’s jaws.’”

Solas’s eyes shut tight. “Cole.”

“Has always made sense to me, somehow,” Ixchel thought aloud, “but things become clearer, yes.”

Solas set his mouth in a thin, angry line. “He _stopped_ Briala from telling him the key,” he said sharply. “He wanted me to let her have them, for her own rebellion. And I killed him. I did not even argue with him.” His words were slow and even, letting each utterance _hurt,_ as he thought he deserved. “There _was no argument,_ because I had only just left uthenera and witnessed the shades that called themselves elves. And he dared to tell me…that they were stronger than I thought. He dared to tell me she reminded him of me.”

He stopped walking, and Ixchel turned to face him.

Solas met her gaze and the depth of his self-hatred in that moment astounded her. She did not reach for him in comfort, however.

“Leliana would have done no different,” Ixchel said quietly. “There have been many things in life that taught her that compassion, softness, allowances, will be punished. I don’t blame her for that, but I won’t let my friends fall into that smooth-walled pit. Not while I’m here to reach down and pull you out." But Solas breathed in again—slow, steady—and the burning in his eyes continued. “Solas, there is very little you could do that would change my world view on redemption,” she said in a harder tone. “ _Dirthara ma, harellen.”_

There was a near-imperceptible flare of his nostrils, and then he ducked his head to break her gaze. “How am I so immeasurably older than you, _da’len,”_ he said through his teeth, “and yet you are the one who looks at me with such experienced eyes?"

“I know pain,” she replied simply. “What was it you once told me? ‘It is calming to see something familiar in another.’”

He snorted outright. “I do not think I see such ugly things in you, Ixchel.”

“Perhaps not.” She shrugged slowly. “But you might see their reflection.”

Solas peered at her keenly again. She did not know when she had decided to be so careless and open, or if it were wise, but it felt like the ground were moving so quickly beneath her and she was flying with it, taking leaps and bounds haphazardly for the thrill of it. It was true—she did not think herself capable of such callousness or cruelty the way Leliana and Solas clearly were. But she felt the pain of watching the ones she loved turn into the things they hated, and the unique pain of becoming the mistake that led to their self-hate.

“You have a very good memory,” he said suddenly. "You remember the strangest things people say."

“I was illiterate and lived alone amid ruins. With no way to keep records and no one to pass stories to, I told them to myself, endlessly,” she told him. As she spoke this piece of her aloud, the hard line of his jaw relaxed a little. The darkness in his eyes began to disperse, and he looked at her with great interest. "I hear the patterns people speak...and I repeat them."

“Hmm.” He made a soft sound as he examined her. “I would like to hear them, _lethallan,_ if you would do me such a favor.”

She smiled at him. “A tale for a tale, _lethallin._ And don’t tell me _any_ of the ones about your tail, Fen’Harel. I know most of those already.”

Solas laughed, and he still chuckled a bit as they walked the rest of the way back to their lodgings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen’Harel enasal - Fen’Harel’s blessing  
> Nuvas ema ir’enastela - May you have great blessings.  
> Fen’Harel enaste - Fen’Harel bless you  
> da’fen - “little wolf” (an endearment for an elder)  
> Vyn esaya gera assan I’mar’av’ingala, Fen’Harel. - You would try to catch an arrow with your teeth, Fen’Harel!  
> Dirthara ma, harellen. - May you learn, rebel/liar/trickster. (The worst fate you could wish on someone)


	75. Broken Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/5/20

Ixchel took the time to write to Terinelan. There were so many things to tell him—about Taven and their exploration of Di’nan Hanin, of Suledin Keep and its grandeur, but also Clan Halveri’s decision to help the elves of Halamshiral and the formation of council of leaders that included city and Dalish elves on it. She had to cut off reports of her death, which she was sure would be abundant, and tell him of the eluvians. And she warned him that she had spoken to the Duke of Wycome and her suspicions had been raised, but she did not know the cause of the Duke’s distress.

She wrote to others, too: instructions for Morrigan upon her arrival at Skyhold, and Amund and Amarok; some for Lace and Rylen, who were going to the Western Approach with Varric and Fenris; and many “It was a pleasure” notes that Josephine had drafted to nobles and luminaries she had met at the ball.

Everyone gathered to play Wicked Grace that night, in anticipation of their departures. Even Leliana had been convinced to join in—which was probably quite dangerous, honestly. The only one missing at the table was Vivienne, but she joined them with a tray of refreshments and sat slightly away from the group to nurse a glass of champagne.

“Are three drakes better than a pair of swords? I can never remember,” Cassandra said as she sat down.

Ixchel took a seat between Varric and Dorian and put her arms around the two of them. “I’m going to miss you two,” she said, with feeling.

“Not after we win every copper you own, Sunshine,” Varric shot back.

“Are you sure you don’t have enough people?” Cullen tried to catch her eye. “I have a thousand things to do.”

“Losing money can be both relaxing and habit forming,” Dorian drawled. “Give it a try.”

“Curly, if any man in _history_ ever needed a hobby, it’s you—or Broody.” He jerked his head at Fenris. “And he’s taken up hunting ‘Vints, at least.”

Fenris saluted the table without raising his eyes from his cards. “Dealer starts,” he urged Josephine.

“Ooh,” Josephine shifted nervously in her chair. “I…believe… I’ll start at…three coppers! Do you think that’s too daring?”

Ixchel raised her eyebrows.

“Maybe I’ll mak it one… No!” Josephine put down her hand. “Boldness! Three it is!”

Bull snorted. “Seriously? Who starts at three coppers? Silver, or go home.”

Ixchel put her elbow on the table. “Which one of you has my coin purse? No one? See, what are we doing?” She couldn’t help a wry glance at Cullen. “Clothes are crueler, anyway.”

Varric began to laugh. “Really, Sunshine? Last time we played strip, you weren’t the most patient!”

At the chorus of laughing questions, Ixchel felt her ears burn a little. Varric was more than happy to fill them in. “Here’s the thing about Hawke,” he said, planting himself on the table like he always did when he was serious about a story. “He’s a _terrible_ gambler. And has a _massive_ ego. Losing has to turn into winning somehow, so every time he loses some clothes, he has to brag about every scar he’s got!” Varric grinned as Ixchel hid behind her hand. “Then _this one_ clearly was feeling a little left out, maybe, and starts stripping on her own so she can brag about how often she’s been maimed!”

Cullen had also turned a little red, but Solas was chuckling at the memory and everyone else seemed to be in good humor. Ixchel sighed, falsely beleaguered. “Let’s just play.”

-:-:-:-:-

Throughout the night, the rounds were broken up with stories. Many were of the Free Marches: Fenris and Varric told stories of Hawke with well-practiced timing, as though they had often spent time regaling taverns with the tales; Cassandra told a story about an aunt of hers who was obsessed with Antivan opera; Bull had a story about ‘haunted’ ruins that were actually just a secret getaway for some particularly _loud_ lovers; even Leliana had a delightful one about pinning knickers to a Chantry board in Lothering.

At the end of the night, Ixchel had only lost her cuirass—but Cullen has lost _every single article of clothing._ Cassandra was more intoxicated than Ixchel had really ever seen her, and Bull and Dorian were once again clued to each other.

Fenris, Solas, Varric, and Leliana were the only ones who had not found themselves at the bottom of a round and so hadn’t lost any clothing. Even Josephine had lost some of her jewelry to the table, though Ixchel was suspicious that this was exactly why Antivans wore so many layers.

“Never bet against an Antivan, Commander,” Josephine said smugly.

“I’m leaving!” Cassandra cried. She stood from the table and nearly knocked her chair over. “I don’t want to witness our Commander’s walk of shame back to the stables!”

“Well, I do!” Dorian crowed.

“Let’s protect the children, then,” Ixchel said. She stood as well and summoned Cole over to her side.

“It comes off?” he said disbelievingly. “I didn’t think it came off.”

Varric and Fenris joined her. She put her arm around Varric’s shoulders as well as they headed up the stairs to their floor. Cole vanished halfway up the stairs.

“It was nice to have everyone together for something fun, before you all leave,” Ixchel said gratefully.

“Of course. And it’s good to be reminded that under all that Heraldry, you’re not just another icon or symbol—like those statues of Andraste holding bowls of fire.” Varric’s face eased a little. “At least, it’s good for me.”

“It’s funny how often I’m reminded that I’m not a symbol or a Chosen One of the gods,” Ixchel said, “but with every reminder, it’s somehow harder to feel normal.” She shook her head as she thought of Briala’s words: _for the stories to decide._

Fenris put his hand on her head and said nothing. But he didn’t have to; she looked up at him and immediately understood.

Ixchel gave Varric’s shoulder a squeeze. “You two are headed out tomorrow?”

“Taking Harding with us,” Varric said, confirming. “It’ll be good to see Hawke again. Make sure he heasn’t thrown himself at another High Dragon without me.” He sighed. “‘S’a shame… I really wish I could have all of you together in one place. Hell, even Sebastian. Have a reunion,” he admitted.

“Me too,” Ixchel said quietly. “Me too.”

Varric left them with a discrete, “’Night,” and then Fenris followed her back to her quarters. As soon as the door had closed behind them, she took his hands in her own. It had been weeks since they’d last touched, and it felt good to lace their fingers together again.

“You’re going back to Hawke,” she said, “where you belong. How are you feeling?”

His eyes narrowed at her almost imperceptibly. “How are _you_ feeling?” he deflected.

She snorted. “Did Merrill ever tell you of ‘Fen’Harel’s Teeth’?” she asked. His wince was answer enough. “That’s how I feel. But…I have a purpose. and now I have so many—I’m being truthful, Fenris.”

The fearsome elf squeezed her hands in his own. “Can you blame me for doubting?” he asked. “This ball has haunted you for so long, and it still caught you off guard.”

Ixchel nodded slowly. “Yes. It did. But that’s life.”

“Remarkably level-headed,” he observed.

“I _hurt_ , Fenris,” she said fiercely. “I hurt, and I’m wounded, and my heart bleeds. I have spent so much of my life hurting, and angry—I am no stranger to it. And for so long, I haven’t been...allowed...to direct it at anything, but now I _can.”_

He studied her face and smirked at what he found. “I suppose they thought you’d get weaker when they wounded you,” he said huskily. His white hair fell long into his eyes as he brought their joined hands up to push back her hair from her ears. “What is a scar but a story?”

“A reminder,” she agreed. “But I don’t think I need to be reminded of all of that right now.” She turned her face up to him with a smile. “I would spend my last night with you thinking more pleasant things.”

“’S good to see you smile.” He paused. “Hawke stopped smiling a long time ago.”

“Maybe you can change that, too,” she replied in a soft voice.

Fenris raised one of her hands to his cheek and held it there as he looked down at her in the murk. “Did I have anything to do with that, really?” he mused.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Fenris, you did.” She stood on her toes to give him a searing kiss that he returned in kind, more familiar and comforting than any lover had ever been to her. He carded his fingers into her hair to angle her for better access, to gather her up close.

“You said you’d save me a dance,” he murmured against her lips.

She kissed him again, then tugged at his tunic. “And I always will, Blue Wraith.”

-:-:-:-:-

They had gathered at the main gates of Halamshiral and said their goodbyes to one another, and to the crowd that had gathered. Ixchel rode off on her white hart, followed by Solas, Cassandra, and Cole. They traveled light, accompanied only by one cart, in which one of Briala’s eluvians had been secured and bundled up among their supplies. It wasn’t a terribly long journey southwest to the Exalted Plains, but they stopped several times along the way; Ixchel still found herself easily exhausted after the deficit of sleep and the stress, both mental and physical, of her stay in Halamshiral.

During one such rest stop, Cassandra caught Ixchel staring off at the western horizon.

“So Fenris is going back to Hawke,” Cassandra said.

Ixchel prepared herself as best she could without visibly tensing. Solas was just on the other side of their camp, but he had made no indication that he was paying attention. She had supposed it might only be a matter of time before someone tried to address her liaisons with the Blue Wraith, and it shouldn’t have surprised her that romantic, Kirkwall-curious Cassandra would be the one. “Yes,” Ixchel said and cleared her throat.

“I was surprised that you two had grown close,” Cassandra said. “He is so… _angry_. Though I suppose that is just how Varric described him.”

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. Before she could reply, Cole chimed in: “Anger and pain reflecting back, bright as brands in his skin. At least you knew when he _felt_ something. But you’ve had enough of broken mirrors.”

Ixchel’s cheeks burned. She fixed a weak glare at Cassandra. “Well, Seeker?”

“I don’t consider you a very angry person,” Cassandra admitted. “Do you?”

The Inquisitor looked down at her hands. “It’s hard not to be, isn’t it?”

Cassandra hesitated. “Well, obviously you are right. But…you have rarely been truly angry. It seems always born of disappointment or grief.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “Then I am doing my job well, I think,” she murmured. “But we have left Val Royeaux, and the time for masks and mirrors is over.”

Solas turned, then, from his tasks and met her eyes. He regarded her silently for a moment, then inclined his head. “I am glad, however, that you allowed yourself some happiness.” His voice was earnest and even as he spoke, just the same as he had told her: ‘ _I am not upset with you.’_ He meant it. “People should seize any chance for a moment’s respite in times such as these.”

Somehow, that only placed more weight on her shoulders. She turned back to the western horizon to continue her reflection. She hadn’t been thinking about Fenris, truthfully. She had been thinking about a fortress, and the Fade.

Maybe she could convince Fenris to take Hawke away from the battle. Just in case. Now more than ever, she knew she could not fall into the Fade again. She could not risk Fenris, or Hawke, for Fenris’s sake—

“Have you found someone to share a moment’s respite?” Cassandra asked Solas. “When you were away?”

Solas gave her a placid, opaque smile. “Of a kind, perhaps.”

-:-:-:-:-

They followed the river and crossed it beneath the gargantuan statue of Andraste. They skirted Celene’s cursed citadel for the time being and made their way to Ghilan’nain’s Grove. There, they were met by an officer. “My Lady,” he said, “welcome and congratulations.”

He handed her a field report. “We’ve contacted as many of the Grand Duke’s forces to alert them to their commander’s fate. They have mostly accepted that the war is now over. A few of the Empress’s Chevaliers have ventured out here to investigate the silence of the Citadelle, but they have been turned away by Revenants and demons inside. Beyond _this_ gateway lies a bit of a mire. Full of gurguts, rumors of a wyvern. A few Venatori harassed us in the night and escaped beyond it—fools’re probably dead. Couple of rifts that way, too.”

“Thank you, ser,” she said.

Her party had made good time to the Exalted Plains, but she knew that tackling the wyvern was unwise—it was likely that her group had not even boarded their ship yet. But if Ixchel could close a rift or two and follow the Venatori, that seemed as good a way to spend her time as any. So Ixchel armored up and led her small band of companions out into the fens.

The sound of a rift drew them southeast through crumbling archways, and they closed it without too much trouble. Continuing up the path, they found the only trace of a statue so massive, Ixchel could scarcely imagine it. It was merely the hand—palm open, beckoning—and she wondered whose it had been. No mortal had constructed such a thing, surely. Perhaps it had been Ghilan’nain, beckoning the way, or Dirthamen, inviting secrets.

Below the hand was a pit, and as Cassandra and Ixchel studied it, they found traces of a somewhat recent passage into it: climbing ropes, footprints, a smear of blood.

“Perhaps the Venatori did not merely flee this way,” Solas mused. “Perhaps it was instead their destination.”

“Then we should see if they found their quarry.” Ixchel tested the rope and found it well-secured, and without further ado, she slid down into the darkness.

What she found there was a strange underground labyrinth that reminded her very much of a crypt, but it was barren of remains or memorials. Instead, as she trekked cautiously onward and inward, she found lower and lower ceilings, vaulted archways—and at last, a large chamber brimming with magic. She looked around with wide eyes in the murk and recognized the globular trees of Mythal that she had once seen in the Vir Dirthara, brimming with ancient magic that called to the destabilizing Anchor. _These_ , however, were silent—and surrounded by halos of golden mosaics. In their center stood an archer, surrounded by four pedestals each topped with a howling wolf.

Ixchel turned a searching gaze to Solas. He leaned on his staff.

“What comes to mind, _lethallan_?” he asked.

So he wasn’t going to help, then.

She turned back to face the scene. “These trees…are connected to Mythal, one of the gods of the elves,” Ixchel said, partly for Cassandra and Cole’s benefit. “The archer is one of Andruil’s—who herself was a daughter of Mythal. Outside, there have been nothing but wolves and stags, the latter belonging to Ghilan’nain. This place belonged to one of the two, then.”

“Or both,” Solas said, a gentle allowance that she tucked away in her reserve of Elvhen truths.

“Or both,” she agreed. “They hold no power at the moment, but I feel the magic in the air…. Perhaps our Venatori friends have not unlocked the secrets here as of yet.” She tilted her head, listening. “I do not hear them, though, so either they have escaped here…or they _did not_ escape.”

Solas nodded. “We should search, cautiously,” he advised.

Cassandra drew her sword.

They indeed found that the Venatori had died: trapped in barred-off sections of the room. Ixchel quickly realized: “They couldn’t figure out the puzzle.”

“Ugh. This is your thing,” Cassandra sighed. “Just tell me where to stand or what to hit.”

“Oh! These are like what Envy tried to twist you with,” Cole added, surprised.

“This isn’t veilfire,” Ixchel corrected.

“But it’s still a trial. The things that make you feel big, not small, _da’len.”_

Ixchel felt her ears begin to burn, and she realized Solas watched her keenly. She ignored Cole’s remarks.

“Lead the way, Inquisitor,” Solas said.

She made a face at him but began circling the large chamber in search of whatever mechanisms lay at the heart of the puzzle.

Ixchel identified several levers and winches that seemed to control the gates around the room, as well as the way the archer statue faced, and which of the four stone pedestals were raised or lowered. After testing things out, she sat in the center of the rubble and began drawing in the dust. “This one up, this pulled. That one up…this clears…”

Her so-styled hedge mage drew closer to watch her writing. “More skills gained from your upbringing, I wonder?”

She shrugged. “You try to sleep in enough trapped ruins, you start picking up how to disable them. I'm pretty familiar with the technology.” She looked up at Cassandra, Cole, and Solas. “I’ll take this lever here. Cassandra, take that one. Solas, over there please. Cole—yes, you got it.”

It took two tries to get the puzzle solved, as Ixchel hadn’t, at first, timed how long it took for each pedestal to lower or rise. Her lack of observation resulted in the archer shooting its magic straight at a wolf’s head more than once, and the magic took several minutes to recharge in-between shots—which meant starting over. But it wasn’t long before each of Mythal’s trees had been activated. The magic crackled and roared in the air above them, and then the sound grew, for two more trees came alive on the other side of a far wall.

Ixchel took her time and looked around at the chamber she was currently in, however. The ambient magic she had sensed all around her in the air had seemingly been sucked up into the trees, and now the crypt was free and clean, almost in the same way as the atmosphere of the Crossroads: Elvhen magic, for elves. But Cassandra seemed only perturbed and uncertain, not uncomfortable.

Ixchel led her group onward.

“Why are there so many bodies?” Cassandra breathed. “It’s almost as though they were…embracing.”

Ixchel hardly had an answer for her. She looked around the crypt they had entered and wondered at its simplicity, yet there was no mistaking that it was a place of honor. Twin wolves guarded the tomb, which held only one sarcophagus. Unlike many ancient tombs of the Elvhen, it had a small headstone to mark it. Ixchel peered closer, but then Solas put his hand on her shoulder.

“I sense something lurking,” he murmured.

Ixchel felt it, too. She glanced down the murky hallway on their left. “Be ready,” she said, then moved closer to the grave marker again.

It seemed to represent the twisting horns of the halla, as opposed to the wide, wing-like rack of a hart.

She was about to open her mouth to guess at what lay within the crypt when there was a hiss behind her. She ducked out of the way to avoid the necromantic energies of the Arcane Horror who had floated in from the adjacent chamber.

The bones beneath her feet began to shift and rise to the Horror’s command. Their fingerbones fused together and became claws, and their chattering teeth were sharp, pointed: hungry.

Solas placed himself between Ixchel and the Horror, and it immediately turned its attention to Cassandra instead. Ixchel narrowed her eyes at Solas’s back—what did he do to get it to ignore him like that?

“The Veil is exceptionally thin here,” he said over his shoulder. “If I call forth my magic, it will tear.”

“I can close it,” she assured him, “or I can take a few hits. Don’t get all protective—”

Solas gave a barking laugh, then stepped aside. “Very well. Happy hunting, _lethallan_.”

She charged forward and caught the Horror unawares with her axe. Solas hung back in a corner of the room, bashing in the skulls of any undead that came in reach but otherwise staying out of the way. Cole, with his quick vanishing acts, made sure the Horror never got far when it tried to get away from Ixchel and Cassandra’s blades. And, considering their track record with Arcane Horrors, they ended the battle relatively unscathed. Perhaps it was the magic in the air—or perhaps the Horror had simply been weakened with age—but Ixchel felt that she hit harder, moved faster. She did not feel so affected by the Horror’s magic or its claws.

In the aftermath, Ixchel examined its disintegrating clothing and did not recognize it as originating from the Empire of the Dales. Arlathan, then.

She felt ready to make her guess. Ixchel turned to Solas and twirled her axe once before pointing it at the crypt. “Ghilan’nain. After the hunter, before the halla.”

He inclined his head.

“Do I want to know?” Cassandra asked.

“Ghilan’nain began as a follower of Andruil,” Ixchel said, her eyes still on Solas. “She cursed a hunter who broke Andruil’s laws. In retribution, he beat, blinded, and bound her. Andruil heard Ghilan’nain’s prayers and turned her into the first halla. But,” she continued, “as we know, Cassandra…it does not take much to style oneself as a god. The Evanuris were elves. And this might be what happened to Ghilan’nain’s first form.”

Cassandra took a slow step forward. “Do you think whatever the Venatori were looking for might be inside?” she asked, grim.

“I would not open it,” Solas said quietly. “I sense no magic within, but a spirit of vengeance would likely be attracted to such remains—if it indeed is what you say, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel spent only a moment longer taking in the mysteries of the crypt. There was so much she still did not know about the ancient elves. Was it that Ghilan’nain had died, but been brought back somehow—like Mythal? Or was it that she had been removed from her broken body and been given a new one? How was that possible?

Had it been something like what Solas did to her, when she was resurrected?

She looked down at her new-old arm.

“All of this magic, for such a simple tomb?” Cassandra wondered aloud.

“Such applications of intellect are often found in halls of worship and gathering,” Solas said. “This trial required forward-thinking and quick reflexes—valuable qualities in a huntress.” He gestured around them with his staff. “Imagine, Seeker, a supplicant proving themselves in such a way, then being brought into this holy space to receive a reward from Andruil, as Ghilan’nain herself did.”

They walked into the next chamber and froze in their tracks.

The walls were lined with weapon racks. As soon as they crossed the threshold, it became clear that something had been hiding the magical auras within the room, because the air thrummed with it inside. Swords, pikes, bows, mauls—they filled the room. Ixchel recognized some of the particulars of their make from her encounters with Sentinels. Others, however, were beyond any craftmanship she had ever seen.

“Hah,” Solas said in quiet amusement. He glanced at Ixchel sidelong. “Well, Worthy One. Select your prize.”

She stepped hesitantly into the chamber. “Is there something that might happen if I were to touch more than one?” she asked.

“I do not believe so.”

She picked up what seemed to be an empty hilt, and she immediately felt a suction upon the Anchor. Green Fade magicks flew down the hilt and formed a blazing blade not unlike Vivienne’s. She looked up at Solas in surprise. “For _ena’sal’in’amelan?”_ she questioned.

There was a sparkle of curiosity in his eye as he nodded. She replaced the weapon on the wall and the blade disappeared into darkness again.

The next weapon she picked up was the finest bow she had ever seen. It seemed to have been carved from dragon bone—she thought, at least, for its golden frame. But when she touched it, she found it held none of the heat that dragon bones contained, and it was far heavier than they ever were. She ran a finger along its string and gasped as a bolt of lightning sprang to life between her hands. The shock of it was so startling that she nearly dropped it, and the memory that passed on to her next was nearly as unexpected. It was like she was in the Vir Dirthara again: sensations and half-formed images and words, beautiful words, whispered in Elvhen but understood intimately in her heart:

_She took the gathering storm, trapped its fury in golden limbs, and strung it with the screams of the south wind._

“The gathering storm,” she said in awe and replaced it in its hallowed spot on the wall.

She took up what seemed to be the grip of a staff—this time, she was prepared for the magic, and the staff itself formed out of green flames. It was weighted in her hand like a halberd, though the whole thing burned.

This one whispered, in a softer, sweeter voice: _The way is full of trials and peril. Carry the warm memories of hearth and home to keep hope alive.”_

“They speak to me,” she murmured. “Were these the voices of…?”

“I hear them too,” Cole said. “They still remember whose hands held them when they were higher, before it woke up and everything fell…so many old songs, singing to old blood.”

“Does any of this make sense?” Cassandra muttered.

Ixchel saw her gaze slip in the direction of a more mundane-looking axe, and Ixchel picked it up. It did not speak to her like the others, which was good; she didn't know how Cassandra might react if it had. She examined the runework and recognized its magic if only because of her first-hand experience of such things. “A master dragon-slaying axe,” she said with a smile. “My dear friend, I believe this was meant for you.”

Cassandra colored. “I do not know if I’m comfortable taking—oh, alright.” Ixchel had pressed the axe into her hands, ignoring her protests. “Are you not taking anything for yourself?”

Ixchel hesitated. “These are all wonderful,” she said, “and I do not know if I feel comfortable leaving them here… But…”

“You’re afraid, like the vallaslin, they mark you as one of _theirs_ ,” Cole offered.

Ixchel sighed. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Solas hummed contemplatively, then crossed the room and selected something off the wall. _“Rogasha’ghi'lan,”_ he called. He couldn’t hide his amusement as she approached. “Crowned with _Felgaral Dir’vhen’an,_ you have proved your wit and reflex…”

It was another empty hilt—long, for a two-handed weapon. He had tucked his own staff under his arm so that he could offer her the new weapon in his upturned palms, a gift bestowed. In the pommel was what seemed to be a shard of an eluvian, or at least something once-mirrored and now tarnished and brassy like the ancient portals. The hilt itself was made of the same strange, dark metal she had seen so much of at Suledin Keep, and it had been engraved in a scale-like pattern, with an etching along one side. She could not read it with her eyes, but as she laid her hand upon it, she understood:

_The spark of inspiration is with you. Use it to restore what was lost._

The blade flared to life, though not with the magic of the Anchor. Rather, it was composed of light itself, in all its colors. It radiated magic like flame or fog, she couldn’t quite describe it—but it was entrancing. In its rippling light she could almost make out the shape of the greatsword within it: shaped like a long feather, inscribed and etched with veins.

The chromatic display lit Solas’s face in much the same way as she had seen in the Crossroads, but something else burned in his eyes as he released the blade into her hands. _“Irlahna veredhe in lea’vune,”_ he said, _“lasa nan’ise nuis, tuauan leal.”_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to make some sense out of all those Trespasser DLC weapon schematics, eh? Ancient Elvhen magicks.
> 
> Edit:  
> All Elvhen credit to FenxShiral:
> 
> ena’sal’in’amelan - arcane warrior
> 
> “Irlahna veredhe in lea’vune,” he said, “lasa nan’ise nuis, tuauan leal.” - "Cry havoc in the moonlight, / Let the fire of vengeance burn, the cause is clear." (Song to Mythal)


	76. Fen'Harel and the Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just another tiny sprinkle of headcanon interwoven with the canon itself...
> 
> 12/6/20

“What will you do to keep these weapons out of Venatori hands?” Solas asked.

She hooked the hilt to her belt—it was light enough to carry on her hip, unlike Glittering Daremellon which she continued to wear on her back. “If I were in a clan, I would give these to my people for safe-keeping, and they would distribute them to other clans at an Arlathvhen. I worry that in the in-between these would make them targets for Venatori…but…” She smirked darkly. “I don’t think that’s a reason not to do something, these days.”

Solas gave her a considering look, and she wondered—no, she didn’t wonder. At one point in time, he would have disapproved of giving these to the Dalish. Perhaps he did not now. She would do what she would do, anyway.

“Let’s figure out how to get out of here before Ghilan’nain stirs her hoof through the roof of heaven to kick our asses down into the Void.” Ixchel turned to the next hallway. “There’s a breeze.”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Cassanra sighed.

-:-:-:-:-

Cassandra wasn’t so thankful when they found themselves in a swamp _full_ of wyverns and gurgets. Ixchel didn’t see the white wyvern, thankfully, and they hacked and slashed and sloshed through the swamp until they reached the Inquisition camp again.

Ixchel wrote off a few reports of their findings and sent them along to Neria, the First who had by now become a lead researcher within the Inquisition. She asked for any other information they might be able to find about who these citadels may have belonged to or been dedicated to over the ages—perhaps there might be some clue to why there was an army of Revenants occupying the one across the river.

She made plans with the officer in the camp to send some people to guard Andruil’s armory until Ixchel could bring Keeper Hawen’s clan to retrieve its contents. She outlined her movements for the next day, and then she retired for the night.

She wasn’t sure who would find her in the Fade, Solas or Cole, for neither had offered and neither came to sleep with her. But she was confident one of them would, and if not, she felt a little more confident in her ability to search the Fade for them than she used to.

But she was surprised to find that in her dream she was back in Suledin Keep, in the ruined courtyard that was full of shattered pieces of eluvians. Her surprise melted away instantly and reformed into certainty: she felt compelled to find the shard she had once picked up. That was why she was here—she need not question it further than that.

Ixchel began digging through the snow in search of it.

Every piece she found was dead and dark and dull; she couldn’t see a reflection within them, nor any sense of magic. She was still searching when her company joined her. She did not look up, still compelled by the sense that she needed that shard for it to work.

She paused. For _what_ to work?

There was a moment, then, of clarity—something pulled away from around her head as certainly as if a shroud had been parted before her. Ixchel straightened up and looked down at her hands. They were red and raw from digging through the snow and scratching on rock and glass.

“What do you search for, _lethallan_?”

She raised herself to her feet, but then the air in the dream was warm and tingling, thick with the Fade, pressing close again. “Answers,” she said. The word seemed drawn from her through thick syrup, and she frowned.

Solas’s steps were silent in the snow, but she felt the Fade move around him. “May I assist you?”

“It’s the shard,” she said. “The shard I held. I need to find it.”

His robes whispered against the snow, and then he reached for her elbow and turned her to face him. He was dressed as he had been the last time she saw him in the Fade, across Judicael’s Crossing: a thick black cloak with the hood drawn up over his head. Now, she could see that a wolf pelt was buckled across his shoulders. Beneath the cloak, she could see the wolf jawbone pendant resting atop a muted yellow tunic.

“Look at me?”

She raised her face to his. As their eyes met, she saw his begin to glow with a familiar light.

“Ah.” A small, close-lipped smile tugged at his mouth. “You have made a friend.” He brushed a hand across her face as though removing a cobweb, and it felt similarly. When he showed her what he had found, she wondered at it. It was a wispy, cloying thing—somehow massless but _full_. It reminded her of the comb jellies that sometimes washed up on the beach in Markham at the end of summer.

“What is it?”

“A wisp,” he said. “It feels something like a Purpose or Determination. I am not surprised to find it drawn to you.” He held his hand up, and it melted away into the Fade, unseen. “Where you rest, in the Exalted Plains, there are many such Spirits pressing against the Veil.”

Ixchel nodded. It made sense. “I wonder what it wanted me to find,” she mused.

“Only something you wanted to find,” Solas replied. “Namely, the shard, for answers.”

She shrugged and pulled away. “I can’t imagine why.”

“You left it on the sill, there,” he reminded her. “Very carefully, if I recall.”

Ixchel flushed at the note of gentle fondness in his voice, but she went to the empty window and indeed found the shard there. It did not swirl with the magic of an eluvian, but it reflected the way a mirror would, unlike its dark companions in the snow. When she took it in her hands, it shone with reflected moonlight.

She examined her reflection but saw nothing out of place—the scars, the vallaslin, the age, the eyes. Then, she did as she had done that last night she had been here, and she tilted it back to look at Solas.

Six red eyes looked down at Ixchel from the darkness beneath Solas’s hood. She clutched the shard more tightly but did not start. Some part of her had expected the sight. Maybe she had _always_ seen that same six-eyed shadow when she looked at him.

But _his_ breath caught in his throat at what he saw in the shattered mirror.

“This isn’t what I see when I look at you,” she said in an attempt to reassure him. _Not anymore, at least._

“What, the Dread Wolf?” he asked. “No, you see Regret, don’t you?”

His voice was carefully even, yet even so, she recognized the disguise in it. She couldn’t tell what it hid, but she could make any number of guesses

Ixchel turned with a confused frown, and he leaped in to the opening with an accusatory undercurrent in his voice: “On the beach at Crestwood, Regret shaped itself into a six-eyed wolf.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “Well… Varric said, ‘eyes like Pride,’” she admitted. “You can be proud of something in the moment, and regret it later.”

“If that is the answer, then the question is: is that what you _think_ I am,” he asked, “or _is_ it what I am?”

She gave him an unimpressed look. He did not rise to her challenge, but held her gaze in a challenge of his own. Ixchel set the shard back in its place on the sill in lieu of answering, because she didn’t quite know what it meant, either—especially if a wisp like Purpose was urging her to see this as an _answer._

He was right to raise the questions he had, of course, and she considered whether or not they were the right questions for the answer she had seen. She did not know. There was always the possibility that this vision had nothing to do with his presence, or said anything about him, but rather _her._ After all, she wasn’t sure herself whether the Regret demon had taken the lupine form because of _her_ or _his_ presence. _Her_ purpose, for so long, had been to dispel the threat of his Pride. But he was also her greatest Regret, in many ways, and that six-eyed shadow had haunted her for so long—over her shoulder in her nightmares, in her waking worries. It was also the shape of her own Despair.

She had no idea what the right question was, for this answer. But she could at least address what she had heard in his voice:

“You are my friend, _Solas_ ,” she said pointedly, “and I care about how you feel. Regret or Pride or otherwise.”

That seemed to disarm him, and she realized that the thing he had been disguising was _suspicion._ Wariness. It hurt more than she had expected it to.

She gestured around them at the Keep. “Imshael gave us a great deal to think about, last time we were here. I understand now why it felt like you were…testing me. But there was more than that. There is something about you and Andruil and Ghilan’nain that puts you on edge and casts the world in a shadow.” She looked back up at him and repeated something he had said to her, such a very long time ago now: “I would know what hurt you.”

Solas touched the pendant on his chest, almost unconsciously, as he gazed upon her. It was almost as though he didn’t believe her, that she would want to know such a thing. Had he always doubted how much she cared for him? Or did he think that something had changed since his confession?

“Why is it so surprising?” she asked quietly.

He tightened his grip on the bone around his neck. His eyes roamed her face before dropping to the snow. “It is foolish, but perhaps I am not accustomed to being…worried about. But you are right. For so long you have met me where I stood, but not followed, not pushed. Now…you can, and you should.”

His words drew a smile to her face. She reached for him now and cupped his elbows in her hands as she looked up at his downturned face. “I don’t mean to push very hard, _lethallin,”_ she allowed. “It would be enough just to have you understand how I care for you.”

He nodded slowly beneath his hood. His eyes—just the two of them, pale silver in the depths of his hood—were creased at the corners with something like grief. “ _Ma serannas,_ Ixchel.”

Ixchel tried to think of something to change the topic, and she looked around her to shape the Fade into somewhere kinder, warmer. But Solas surprised her by brushing aside her attempt and altering the Fade himself.

Suledin Keep was restored, and it was full of trees. There were few roofs that Ixchel could see; instead, the keep’s great halls were covered in canopies of interlocked branches and vines. Many of the windows had not held glass at all, it seemed, but rather allowed spirits and birds to fly freely through them. There was no snow on the ground; Spirits fluttered all around, some as small and insubstantial as the wisp that had clung to her and others as large and imposing as they came. She didn’t recognize many of them, but they were all beautiful to her.

Where they now stood was one of the exterior walkways lined with archers and stags. Framed between them, in the distance, was the mountain-sized statue of Fen’Harel.

Elves milled about the complex as well, dressed in fine armor in greens and browns and armed with bows. Each and every one wore the vallaslin of Andruil. From the way they were dressed and carried themselves, Ixchel gathered that the color of the blood writing in some way indicated rank. She could not make out their features more specifically, blurred with time and memory.

Solas watched her take in the wonders of the place. She looked up at the sky and found it full of auroras like she had never seen. Even in the daylight she could see the specks of stars hung up far in the cosmos. The air itself was populated by creatures and Spirits, though not so many as might be considered crowded.

In terrifying dissonance with the beauty and grace of their surroundings, the air was full of the tortured cries of beasts.

She looked back down at Solas with alarm. He clasped his hands behind his back as he gazed out upon the path ahead of them. His brow was troubled.

He had changed, too; he was younger here, perhaps even thinner. His hair was a long, dark waterfall down his shoulder, though it was cropped short on the sides. A circlet of twining branches curled up around his ears. He was dressed in the golden armor of a Sentinel, but he was so very different from the Solas she had once known—the last Solas she had seen in such armor—that it did not hurt so much to see.

“I suspect you will have questions.”

Ixchel laughed hesitantly. “Well, I always have questions.”

He raised an eyebrow and sent an oblique glance in her direction. “I hope you will ask them freely, now.”

She bit her lip. “If you wish.”

He turned back to the path, but he did not move the dream along. The scene continued as it had: the long path, bodies moving, the cries of the beasts, the twinkling auroras, and a slight breeze.

“I do not know where to begin. So here is just a story,” he said. “Andruil grew bored with hunting the creatures of the air and land and sea. Even Ghilan’nain, Mother of Monsters, could not keep up with the Huntress’s need for ever more challenging prey. To prevent her from turning her bow upon the People, Mythal suggested a competition between her own greatest hunter and Andruil herself. Andruil agreed and suggested the halla as their prey, for they were fleetest of foot and sure to shy.”

“But Mythal’s hunter bested Andruil,” Ixchel supplied with a sly grin.

Solas dipped his head, likewise smirking. “After he struck the killing blow, Andruil claimed he had gone against her will by slaying the halla without her blessing. She captured Mythal’s servant and bound him to her bed for a year and a day to pay her back.”

Ixchel’s smile faded. Though Solas spoke so lyrically and impersonally now, it hadn’t been long ago that she had made a passing reference to the Chevaliers penchant for such assaults and he had replied with a promise of murder.

_A year and a day._

“Anaris, then at war with the Evanuris, heard of Andruil’s preoccupation and lay siege to her home.”

The agonized cries of fearful animals were joined by the distant sounds of warfare, though the scene remained peaceful on its surface. Ixchel wondered at that, at why he was not showing her the events of the story, or Andruil or Anaris. She looked back at him and found he had lost his smile.

“Andruil was content to let the walls crumble around her, until Mythal’s hunter pondered whether she were hiding from the superior warrior, Anaris. Andruil leaped for her sword, but the hunter again wondered if Andruil would simply go out and bloody her blade on a boar and claim she had bested her rival. In her fury, Andruil dragged her bound prisoner out to watch a duel between herself and Anaris.

“Blinded with rage and pride, Andruil paid no heed when her prisoner told Anaris of a flaw in her armor.” Solas shook his head slowly. “When she fell, Mythal’s hunter claimed that Anaris owed him a life debt. Anaris agreed, but the hunter then claimed the life he owed was Andruil’s. Anaris had given his word and could do nothing to stop the hunter as he stole Andruil away and brought her, humbled, to the feet of her mother.”

The air was suddenly filled with the familiar sound of a dragon’s wings. A dragon—larger than any Ixchel had ever seen—flew low over the Keep, then wheeled around and dove below the cliff, likely to head to the massive Undercroft-like chamber Cole had shown her. As the dragon flew, Ixchel caught a glimpse of its keen, golden eyes.

Mythal.

Solas was watching the dragon’s path when Ixchel rounded on him. “Did Mythal give you the justice you deserved?”

He did not lower his eyes to meet her gaze now. “What do you mean?”

“She held you captive. She—she stole your _agency.”_ But she had already seen the answer behind his opacity, and Ixchel’s blood ran cold. She hugged herself to quell her shivers. _“Nothing?”_

“Mythal sent her servant to humble Andruil, and I did,” he replied. “I knew not that I should ask for anything in return. And it seemed better than letting her hunt the People.”

Ixchel worked her throat around a sudden knot. “ _You_ are not an acceptable sacrifice,” she said vehemently. "I hope you know that now."

That made Solas turn. It _was_ the youngest she had ever seen him, she was certain. He seemed taken aback by the look on her face, but his surprise passed quickly to be replaced with an expression that was both abashed and bitter. He raised a hand to touch the side of her neck tenderly while that sad, twisted smile ghosted across his lips.

His thumb stroked the corner of her jaw, thoughtfully as he took in her fiercely determined visage.

 _“’Ma serannas,_ Champion,” he said.

Ixchel clasped his hand against her neck and squeezed it tightly as she drank in the sight of him, this young, fierce warrior. “You were a hunter?”

“I was what I was asked to be,” he replied.

Ixchel suddenly realized that, perhaps, she was the first person who had heard him speak of himself like this—and, apparently, the first to respond in such a way—in more centuries than she could reckon with. For however long he had been in _uthenera,_ he had likely lived just as long in Elvhenan. How much of that had been as a slave?

The strength of her sudden sorrow brought a pall over the bright sky and mist to her eyes. She stared up at him beneath her brow heavy with concern. “You wouldn’t show me them?”

He shook his head. “They are locked away, but even the memory of them holds a vengeful power,” he said ruefully. “Especially in the Fade.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. She _did_ have so many questions, but some she could not explain how she knew to ask them.

“I suppose it makes sense now, why Andruil’s archer was always chasing the wolves on the pillars,” she said at last.

He chuckled at that. “Yes. She wasn’t very fond of me.”

 _“Felgaral Dir’vhen’an?”_ she asked. “Were you looking for it, that night?”

Solas shook his head. “No… I was wandering, reflecting on Imshael’s words… When I saw you, crowned with it, I—” He caught himself from saying something. His eyes, and his hand, slipped away. “There were many things on my mind in that moment. Partly, that I did not know what it meant for you to appear so suddenly with it in your hair, when I had spent so long wondering if you were on the same path as those I had locked away. Partly, that I did not want Andruil to lay claim to you even in this way. Partly…” He paused, then plowed ahead. “…that I wanted to see you wear it as the worthy Champion I hoped you’d be.”

Ixchel was quiet as she followed him down the path. The spirits who had played the part of the crowd of ancient elves fled into the Fade, leaving them alone in the beautiful keep. Ixchel did not know what to follow his remark with; once again, she felt she was at the impasse of how important she knew she was to him, and his seeming indecision about how to proceed from there. She likewise did not know of a question she could ask in that moment that wouldn’t hurt. She wanted to ask about Mythal. She wanted to ask about the vallaslin, and geases. She wanted to ask about Andruil's armor of the Void, and Ghilan'nain's monsters.

His melancholy had fallen like a heavy mantle across his shoulders

She stopped walking and pushed against his hold on the dream around them. He relented easily and turned to watch with curiosity as she let her plan unfold:

She wore the pyrophite, dragon bone, and Dalish banner weave once more, edged with bloody red and sunset oranges; he was again in the shirt, gorget, and tabard he had worn to the Winter Palace. His hair was still long, braided down one shoulder, and his pendant around his neck. They stood at the center of the empty ballroom.

“I might have been the first elf to dance in this court in over eight-hundred years,” she said, “but I won’t be the last.” She extended her hand. _“Vyn alas’niremah i'em, Fen’Harel?”_

“ _Ma ghilana’falon,”_ he replied, drawing closer.

They danced the night away, alone in Halamshiral. Though he held her close, though they spun endlessly in their finery, his smile did not return before the walls of the dream fell down around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Vyn alas’niremah i'em, Fen’Harel?” - would you dance with me, Fen'Harel  
> Ma ghilana’falon,” - I am lead by you, friend / i follow you, friend / lead me, friend (dear friend)


	77. Liberated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/7/20

Ixchel found some of Celene’s Chevaliers at the bridge to the Citadelle du Corbeau and enlisted them to help her. From their reports, it did not seem that more Arcane Horrors had taken root in the outer ramparts in her time away; the threat remained inside the walls. She eyed the Chevaliers. “I can handle a Revenant with Cassandra,” she said, “but you _must_ keep the others off of me.”

“Aye, Inquisitor.” One of them saluted her. The others clumsily followed suite. She nodded, trying to keep herself from raising an eyebrow at the display. Never would she have thought she’d have Chevaliers saluting her like this. She turned to Cassandra, who was wearing her heaviest armor and sturdiest shield. They both were dressed for an utter assault. “Ready, Seeker?”

“Maker preserve us,” Cassandra muttered.

Ixchel drew her chromatic greatsword and led the way. They were able to walk, unaccosted, in to the front gate of the citadel and didn’t get much farther than that. It wasn’t that they were stopped by an assault, or by a trap—they were simply struck dumb by what they saw:

Bodies littered the courtyard ahead of them, and they began to rise even as the onlookers watched. But they were constantly stirred by a vortex of fire and ice that scoured the landscape from some unknown source above them. The vortexes swirled in random patterns and circuits across the courtyard, and even at a distance Ixchel could feel their terrible power.

“Ah,” Solas said. “Yet another example of humans cannibalizing the magic of the elves like vultures picking scraps off a corpse.”

Ixchel coughed pointedly at him. However true it was, it wasn’t very polite. “Elvhenan or the Dales?”

“Dalish,” came his response.

She supposed that was right. This magic seemed rather chaotic to be something of an Evanuris. She looked up at the sky and squinted to see if she could identify the source, but all she saw was the mysterious hooded figure much like the Watcher of the Emerald Graves.

“They call him ‘the Raven,’” a Chevalier said behind her. “I was stationed here, once. The shadow it casts looks like dark wings flying over you.” He raised his sword and pointed up at a tower. “There is a heavy mechanism that activates this strange magic. We were told to use it only in the direst of sieges.”

“I would call an army of undead a dire siege,” Cassandra agreed.

“Cole,” Ixchel said. “If you can sneak up there, unnoticed, and see if you can deactivate the mechanism—”

Cole vanished before she even finished. She raised her head. “Be careful!” she hollered.

That drew the attention of the newly awakened undead. Solas raised a wall of ice to funnel them individually toward them, and that worked until the vortex of fire swept down and obliterated the wall.

As a test-run of the chromatic greatsword, there seemed nothing better than tearing through the endless hordes of undead. It was lighter than she had anticipated, but its weight seemed natural in her hands. She could swing it one- or two-handed, and it bit through flesh and bone just like any metal blade she had ever forged. It seemed like every time it hit an enemy, it flared with a different color and inflicted some kind of elemental damage against her enemy. She had a soft spot for Glittering Darmallon, but…she could get used to this.

They carved their way past the scouring flames and blistering ice vortexes and into a small entryway blocked off by portcullises. She could spy more magic and more undead lying on the other side.

And then the magic vanished.

Ixchel held out her arm and Cole appeared under it. “Thank you, _lethallin_ ,” she said warmly. “Was it very difficult?”

Cole shook his head. “It was shaped like the Mayor’s dam controls,” he said. “The gears want to move—they haven’t been moved in so long.”

“Right,” Casandra said dryly. “Because gears want things.” She glanced at the Chevaliers, who seemed perplexed but, ever professional, were going to roll with it. “I don’t question it, myself,” she said.

“You’re a talented rogue, my boy,” one of the Chevaliers chuckled.

Cole blinked at him. “I’m not a rogue, and I’m not your boy?” he said, confused.

Ixchel patted Cole’s shoulder. “Let’s clean up, then.”

“There’s Rage, and Fear, and Revenants,” Cole said. “Most of them are up high. They were looking for soldiers. There’s only dead now.”

-:-:-:-:-

It took the rest of the day to clear the citadel of undead. They found not a single living soul within the walls, even in the vaults and crypts where Celene’s forces had gone to hide. They had been starved out, and Ixchel was filled with regret at the knowledge that Cassandra _had_ been right—in her hurries and amid the mountain of her other concerns, all of these people had died because she did not come to save them. She didn’t know what she could have done, and the guilt weighed on her.

In the end, they had to resort to makeshift body pits and burning the remains that were scattered through the fortress—and there were many. The smell eventually overwhelmed her and she retreated to a section of the citadel that was isolated by a ruined wall; she had to climb up through some empty windows to reach it, and that meant most of the putrid smoke did not reach it, either.

She allowed herself to be ill in peace, and then she sat back against a pillar and looked out at the river. It was like a thread of fire through the land as it reflected the dying light of day. The statues of Andraste and the figures holding bowls of fire seemed as though they had simply scooped up the liquid flames at their feet.

Ixchel heard the quiet footsteps of her ancient Elvhen mage, but she did not turn.

“I know you said the magic was from the Dales,” she said, “but the architecture reminds me of Suledin, and the Watcher reminds me of Dirthamen... We found Andruil’s secret testing grounds, and I can’t help but think—what else did Dirthamen hide for the Evanuris?" She paused, and she thought of the hidden valley, Fen’Harel’s welcome, and eluvian after eluvian after eluvian flanked by ravens. "And what secrets did Dirthamen keep _from_ them?"

“Now, isn’t that an astute question?” Solas said. He lowered himself to the ground beside her, close enough that their arms brushed. She resisted the urge to lay her head on his shoulder, and instead she turned her head to gaze upon him. He had his eyes closed against the sunset, and the golden light seemed to wash away all of the signs of his age and worry. “The borders of their kingdoms were not drawn in a way you might see on a human map,” he said. “The _world_ was not drawn in a way you might see on a map."

His voice was laden with twisted sorrow, and Ixchel thought of the Solas she had once known. How rarely had he allowed her even the shallowest glimpse of his true grief, his true passion, his true self?

Solas took a breath, then let it sigh out of him with his words. "This was one of Dirthamen's few public holdings... He was a friend, once. It is another irony of fate that you wear his brands, _lethallan.”_

And she thought of how he’d run from her when she’d shown him what she considered the trust and love due to the dearest of friends. She thought of how he had thrown Bull’s betrayal in her face, warned her to be more careful with _her_ Inquisition.

She though of Felassan: one of Solas’s ‘most trusted agents’ and, perhaps, a friend. He had certainly known Solas well enough to push his buttons. And Solas had killed him without hesitation.

When had he been betrayed so thoroughly that his hand could not be swayed, even for a moment, not even for a friend? Who was the last person to have touched his heart, or to have _seen_ it? To have _asked?_ When had Solas forgotten Compassion?

She thought of him now. He had not fully unburdened himself, but he was lighter. He had admitted things to her she hadn’t even thought he was capable of feeling: fear, doubt, worry. The man beside her was _nearly_ irreconcilable with the man she had known—though still, she did not fully believe him, or herself.

 _I will not betray your trust,_ she had promised him.

“I wish you’d show me more,” she murmured. “But maybe it hurts.”

Solas opened his eyes and squinted into the sunset. “Cole has tried. ‘Your hurt is old inside, vast across the Veil.’” He chuckled bitterly and closed his eyes again as he tilted his head back to rest against the warm stone behind them. _“Lethallan,_ there are thousands of years of things that have been lost. Where could I possibly begin?”

Her brow creased in concern. He knew she could not hope to _tell_ him what he should tell her to make himself feel better, and she felt badly for asking so many silly questions—it made her feel like a schoolchild, and only served to highlight the disparity of age and experience between them. She wanted him to tell her the things he loved about his home, his people. And she understood what he was saying now, but that was no reason to be withholding.

The withholding made her nervous, as though it were the first step to running away.

“Solas?” she said softly, to call his eyes upon her. She gazed at him for a moment longer. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Solas’s pale eyes were open to her; she saw surprise in them, more than anything. But the the surprise cleared, and a troubled darkness took its place. She did not need to elaborate on whether it was the loss of Mythal, the loss of his People, the loss of grand magicks, or the loss of friends to betrayal and death—at his hand or otherwise. There was _such_ loss in him, and somehow she knew it, and he knew it, somehow, too.

“Thank you,” he said, just as quietly.

And that was all they said for a very long time.

-:-:-:-:-

They trekked back across the river to sleep at the Inquisition camp, for the citadel smelled like burning flesh and a general sense of unease remained in its walls. She slept on her own again, but she did not lucidly dream. When she woke, she felt sore from her previous day’s taxing endeavor and groggy from a night of imperfect sleep, and she realized it had been a long time since she had _only_ dreamed.

Cole stuck his head in her tent while she was preparing for the day. “I watched the walls,” he said, “but your mind was restless. I didn’t think to interrupt.”

“Thank you, Cole,” she said. It was a relief to know that she hadn’t left herself open to an assault from the Nightmare just because she hadn’t had perfect awareness of her dreams. It was awe-invoking, to think that she—not a mage at all—had grown used to controlling the Fade in her dreams. There had once been a time that she wouldn’t have ever thought it possible.

She received a raven that morning from Vivienne. They would be arriving at the Ghislain estate by that evening if they were not held up.

“Wyvern,” she said to her companions that morning. “Anyone in for the wyvern?”

A few other Inquisition soldiers volunteered excitedly. She gave them a speech about the snowy wyvern’s dangers and weaknesses and that she was interested in collecting its heart, so please don’t butcher it too badly.

 _“Lethallan,”_ Solas said as they packed up to prepare for their trek through the marsh. “How are you going to transport it?”

“Uh.” She looked around wide-eyed. “I was…going to wrap it up?”

He made an ungainly snort. “And carry it?”

“…Yes.” She turned sheepishly to find his shoulders shaking with mirth. Her ears burned. “C’mon, _hahren._ I don’t want to fuck this up for Vivienne.”

“It is quite a rare and delicate ingredient. I will go fashion a suitable container, if you think you will be able to survive without a mage at your side,” he said.

She glanced back at her motley crew of soldiers. “I would appreciate the container,” she said.

He touched her shoulder. When she looked back at him, his face had grown a little more serious. “Be careful, Ixchel.”

“Find us by the screaming, probably,” she suggested, and then she turned to lead her expedition out of the camp.

-:-:-:-:-

Solas _did_ find them by the screaming.

Not only was the marsh _full_ of gurguts—they all seemed attracted to the flesh of their downed kin. Every gurgut that fell only seemed to attract four more, and it became imperative for Ixchel to carve out the heart of the white one before any particularly wily beasts got to it before her. Once she’d gotten the massive thing in her hands, she raised her head and shouted that they were ready to run.

They were halfway back to the camp when the High Dragon made her first circuit over their heads.

Ixchel’s entire hunting party stopped and stared up at the bizarrely-colored dragon as it flew overhead. They were less enraptured when it turned in the air and began circling back toward them.

“Scatter!” Ixchel ordered. “Soldiers back to the camp!”

She did not want to fight a High Dragon in the middle of a swamp. Particularly when its colors indicated at least to her inexpert eyes that it might be a lightning beast.

Fortunately, it seemed that the dragon had caught the scent of the slaughter they’d left behind them—as had most of the remaining gurguts in the fens—and it flew by with only a parting shot. Of course, Ixchel was _right_ that it was a lightning dragon, and the ball of buzzing lightning landed right in the middle of the water. Anyone who was unlucky enough not to be on high ground in that moment collapsed in a heap of twitching, shrieking convulsions.

And Ixchel could only watch helplessly until it passed, for she did not dare step into the electrified water and succumb to the same fate.

Solas rushed forward as the last of the electricity dissipated, and he thrust an urn into her arms before running off to revive as many of their injured soldiers as he could. She shoved the heart into the urn and replaced the lid, and then went to assist him as best she could. She had a soldier over her shoulders, and Cassandra somehow had two, but Solas was the one who got the most back on their feet with the aid of spirits.

They had suffered no casualties, and her soldiers seemed to view their injuries as marks of a grand story they’d be able to tell, but Ixchel still felt guilty for the danger.

“They wanted to hunt a wyvern,” Solas reminded her as they pulled the cover off of the eluvian.

“Yeah, but how many of them have even fought a gurgut before?” she asked wearily. “Did they really know what they were getting into?”

“You warned them as best you could, _lethallan_.”

She gave him a grateful smile, though it was a little strained. “ _Fen’Harel enasal,”_ she whispered to the mirror.

Cassandra, who had offered to stand guard on the Exalted Plains side of the eluvian, gasped at the sight. Of course, Ixchel had described the in-between place for Cassandra and offered to let her come with them to deliver the wyvern heart, but Cassandra was still uneasy about the Elvhen magic, and she was also concerned about Venatori in the area. Ixchel agreed with her logic, and she felt good about having Cassandra watching the precious artifact, but still—the look of utter awe on the Seeker’s face had her very much looking forward to the day she could bring Cassandra with her.

Ixchel stepped through the eluvian and into what she had come to think of as the hall of uthenera.

It was empty at the moment.

“Solas,” she said when he came through behind her. “Did you ever walk the labyrinth yourself?”

He seemed taken aback by her question. They strolled around the perimeter of the hall in the direction of the mirror that would lead to Vivienne. “No,” he said at last. “Even paths unmarked by Dreamers were never unknown to me. If I wanted company, or advisers, or guides, I could find them.”

She studied him carefully as something familiar nagged at the back of her mind. It was a memory she had found in the Vir Dirthara—those stayed with her almost more clearly than her own memories, perhaps by magic and design. It had described how Dreamers could find the deepest parts of the Fade if they reached an utter epiphany, likely in uthenera themselves. Hundreds of years for searching, learning, practice.

_Those who never manifested outside the Fade will find it easier to find its stillest roots, but it is rare the compulsion overtakes our brethren of the air._

She and Dorian had looked at each other with such immediate understanding, such awe. She had already known Solas’s true identity, and as they learned more and more through their pursuit of the Qunari, she had pieced together a better understanding of Elvhenan: a realm almost inconceivable to Dorian, where Fade and Material interacted in seamless harmony the way the sky met the ocean on the horizon. Spirits and Elves were nearly indistinguishable, yet separate. And those like Cole were not so rare. It had particularly excited him to find out that he and Solas weren’t very different after all.

That was when she had _truly_ known Solas. And that was the first time she had _truly_ despaired. Because like Cole, he had seemingly made his choices, and she feared there would be no return.

“Then, Dreamer…did you hear the music when I walked the paths?” she asked.

Solas nodded.

“With the weapons in Andruil’s armory, and with the labyrinth… I hear voices, too,” she said. “I mean to ask you, what was the song _from?”_

That only seemed to perplex him. “I heard no words when you walked the runes, Ixchel,” he said. His suddenly curious gaze zeroed in on the labyrinth. “The melody…is a familiar one, though I cannot recall where I had heard it before.”

“Huh.” She likewise stared at the labyrinth below them. The central pedestal seemed so much like the altar upon which a body might be displayed—a realization that made her skin crawl.

Ixchel quickly activated the eluvian and stepped through.

Dorian, Bull, and Vivienne were watching for her arrival, arrayed about the room with dubious and startled looks on their faces. Judging from the objects in their hands, they had been in the middle of unpacking when the eluvian awoke.

“Good evening,” Ixchel said pleasantly. She stepped toward Vivienne as Solas followed through the eluvian. “I have gifts for everyone!”

She chattered about Andruil’s ritual site and the weapons she had found there while she, without ceremony, handed Vivienne the urn that contained the wyvern heart. Then she began passing out the weapons. She gave Bull Glittering Darmallon with a grave warning not to lose it, and she gave Dorian the flaming staff. She watched him curiously as he clasped the grip, to see if he heard the voice too. From the way his eyes widened, she imagined he did. “Fascinating!” he murmured. “Solas, do you know of such magic? I see no memory crystal—”

The two mages began to chat good-naturedly, and Ixchel engaged Bull so as to allow Vivienne the privacy to slip away with the wyvern heart to begin her alchemy.

“Have you visited your Blue Wraith yet?” Dorian asked her with a smirk.

Ixchel wished she could pantomime the many painful ways she wished she could kill him, but Solas was carefully neutral beside Dorian, and it almost would make it more uncomfortable to act as though she were bothered by Dorian's needling. “No,” she replied shortly. “They haven’t reached the Western Approach yet. I would hate to try and step out into like, a tarp. And I’m busy.” She made a face. “Tomorrow we’re going to reach out to Taven’s clan and see if they can take the rest of the armory for safe keeping. But I want to win his Keeper over to help the Orlesian elves, and that might take some more work.”

Solas gave her a pensive look. “ _Sael_ Taven seemed somewhat progressive.”

“Yes, and his Keeper _hates_ him,” she replied. “That’s why they say, ‘Experience is the Keeper’s, Passion is the First’s.’” Solas chuckled at that, and she rolled her eyes. “Of course you’d like that, _hahren.”_

She was delighted to see the faintest hint of a blush dust his cheeks.

"Hopefully Leliana will have some leads for us," Bull said, bringing the conversation back to their more immediate concerns. "Last we heard, she was tracking the Red Templars overland course. You were right: they were headed north." He cracked his knuckles testily. "Dorian's been telling me some about these Old Gods. Dragons? You send me up here to fight some divine dragons?"

Ixchel clapped him on the shoulder. "I fucking _hope_ not," she said flatly. "If we see one, I'm leaving it all for you, Bull."


	78. Allemande

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest pet peeve? Dudes trying to get women to make their decisions for them in the dodgiest way possible.
> 
> Friend, who was in a relationship, tried coming on to me once. I told him to fuck off until he decided whether he wanted to be with his girlfriend or not. "What do you want me to do," he begged.
> 
> "I literally just told you: I want you to make up your damn mind, and then tell me. And no, I absolutely won't tell you if I want to be with you or not. Make your own decisions."
> 
> / how I feel about Solas 50% of the time.
> 
> love both of them though
> 
> 12/8/20

Ixchel fussed with her hair in front of the sleeping eluvian.

“I honestly can’t tell if, after Halamshiral, I should come to Hawen as the most elfiest elf, or as the city elves’ _Rogasha’ghi’lan,_ or as the Inquisitor,” she fretted over her shoulder. “I know he doesn’t trust the Chantry. And I’m only _half_ an elf.”

Cassandra sighed. “You helped Taven explore Din’an Hanin,” she reminded her. “You returned the account of Red Crossing to his clan. You wear the…Dalish tattoos.”

Ixchel looked at the Seeker mournfully in the mirror. “I wish that mattered to the ones who really care,” she said and shook her head. “You’re right. I’m as elfy or not as I’m ever going to be.”

She tucked her hair behind her ears and stepped away from the mirror. She was wearing her fine blue, white, and gold brocade-and-dragon-bone armor, the heavy one she mostly wore for show, and the Ardent Blossom. She’d been favoring footwrappings instead of boots lately, when she new she wasn’t going to be wading through seas of corpses, at least, but the combination of styles made her feel stuck in an uncomfortable in-between.

Though Cassandra and Cole were both known to Taven and a sizable group of Hawen’s clan, Ixchel had decided it would be better to approach the notoriously cautious Keeper with only Solas for company. She wasn’t exactly sure how that would go, in and of itself, but she trusted Solas to be on his best behavior for her.

When had that happened?

They set out slowly on their mounts fairly early, and they reached the river by midday. Solas was dressed in the wyvern leather cuirass and paragon’s luster gorget that he had somehow obtained before they last left Skyhold, as well as the vest and overcoat she had crafted for him. He had scavenged some light shoulder armor from somewhere in the citadel, she imagined, because only that would explain how he had suddenly come across the addition. She thought, however, as she glanced at him surreptitiously, that she liked this more rugged look on him. The Sentinel armor was striking, and she was sure Fen’Harel had chosen it for that very reason, but this…brought him down to earth, while simultaneously reinforcing that he was not a mere mage: he was a force to be reckoned with.

She did not think he had caught her staring, but when he turned and looked straight at her, there was no escape.

And then he said, “Ixchel, you’re staring.”

Ixchel was glad at least that she was a good bluff, because she did her best to control her blush and face to seem unabashed. “Just wondering when you stopped trying to pretend you were mage,” she said. “It’s nice armor.”

He was more than her match for keeping his cool. “If I’m to be honest, it was when you started throwing bears at me.” Solas patted the wyvern cuirass with a lily-white hand, long fingers splayed across the dark silver-purple leather. “There was a time when I would not worry. But pride should not get in the way of protection.”

She laughed. “It seemed that Pride has become _my_ protection—how did you get that Arcane Horror to pass us by?”

His fingers twisted around the jawbone pendant, and he lifted it. “They gave me more than just the name as an insult,” he said, “and I turned more than just the name into a badge of honor.” He twirled the pendant slowly, so that the fine cord wound, then unwound. “Andruil killed my partner, to tell me she would always be able to hunt me. I made this into a ward of concealment.”

Ixchel’s was nearly struck dumb, and ice flooded her veins. The world seemed to spin as she repeated, “Your partner?”

Solas’s head dipped. He contemplated the jawbone for a moment more, then let it fall back to his chest. “We were Mythal’s hunters,” he said. For a long moment, Ixchel thought that was all he was going to say. But then, he continued. “We were hunters, soldiers, guardians, judges. Her watchers, her wolves… When I removed my own chains and dared walk among the Evanuris as their equal, some sought to remind me that I was not.”

Ixchel’s knuckles were white against her reigns. She looked down at her lap and closed her eyes to stifle her fury for his sake. She had had plenty of animal companions in her years as Inquisitor, but none were more dear than the black wolf cub she had adopted from the demon-infested pack in the Hinterlands. Banrea had followed her from Haven to Skyhold, to the farthest corners of Thedas in pursuit of Corypheus. He had joined her in the Deep Roads after Solas had left; a protecting shadow in the blackest darknesses she had ever encountered.

The Viddasala had killed him in their pursuit through the eluvians. No one had thought to recover his remains, not when her arm had just been taken from her and she required such immediate medical attention.

She had lost so much that day.

They passed in silence beneath the watching eyes of the Guardian Wolf.

“Someday, _lethallan,”_ he said at last.

Ixchel looked across at him. His gaze was still on the path ahead, his shoulders fallen, his brow creased again with his many, immeasurable losses. “Someday, you will know the things I have lost. But today, we will bring some of it back to your People.”

She swallowed. “Our People.”

He took a deep breath. “I have been thinking lately of a memory I encountered,” he said, with careful slowness. “I saw the memory of a man who lived alone on an island. Most of his tribe had fallen to beasts or disease. His wife had died in childbirth. He was the only one left. He could have struck out on his own to find a new land, new people. But he stayed.”

The muscles in Solas’s jaw worked as he considered this scene once more, as he spoke it to her. “He spent every day catching fish in a little boat, every night drinking fermented fruit juice and watching the stars. I watched this man until he died, and the memory yet haunts me of the island falling silent at last.” The gentle rhythm of his voice faded, as they both contemplated his words. He did not look at her now, not even when his voice returned in force: “How can you be happy surrendering, knowing it will all end with you? How can you not fight?”

Ixchel, with the intensity of her eyes alone, tried to pick apart the metaphors within the memory, for this question felt like a trap. Did he view what she had asked him as a surrender? As a ceasefire? And had she not urged him so often: _it is the trying that matters?_

Which was the right answer here, and which would set him back on his _din’an’shiral?_

Her eyes had already pricked with tears as she mourned their respective lost companions. Now, her breath came sharply through her nose as she fought off her mounting frustration. Why couldn’t he face her, place his options and thoughts honestly before her, and beg her opinion that way? When would the double-speak end between them?

When would he _trust_ her?

“Solas…”

He was conspicuously silent.

“Fine, _harellan._ What does fighting look like?”

The mage had not seemed to anticipate being questioned. He turned narrowed, canny eyes on her now, and found her own gaze hard and unyielding. They watched each other for a long moment. “I don’t know,” he said at last.

Ixchel drew Eldrhu the hart to a stop, and his own mount continued only for a pace more. She watched the sharp lines of his silhouette as the tension mounted in his shoulders, even in his ears. “I don’t think that passively accepting your fate constitutes a fight,” he said at last.

“I know this is rich, coming from me,” she said, “but must everything be a fight? _Was_ he passively accepting his fate? Do you know his thoughts?” She sighed. “There are many things I could say, Solas, that might all be true! I could say there is no shame in being content with the memories and ghosts of what he loved, if they’re enough to sustain him. I believe that we should be so lucky to find such contentment, that our existence _could_ be so content, and passive.”

Her hands shook, and her hart tipped its head around to look at her, for her knees were squeezing its ribs as well. She was _afraid_ in this moment, so very afraid, because it felt like a life was in her hands, and she was afraid that she was both the weapon and the shield at once.

“But if he was not content with his fruit juice and memories of his lost loves, I might say, it is a shame that his fear of the unknown held him back—fear that nothing would come of the effort, or it would be worse than he possibly imagined. He could have, as you say, gone Elsewhere and found new people to make his own. I think you imply he could have found happiness in forgetting the past and moving forward. But I say that, if he reached Elsewhere, then he could also make it _more_ with the gift of his experience. And in any and all cases, he might _still_ have felt alone. Or he could have found, perhaps, a companion willing to understand his trauma and welcome him, and it, on the journey ahead.”

She pulled the reigns tight in her hands. “Solas, tell me truly. What does fighting look like?”

“I do not know anymore,” he said. “That is why I asked.”

Ixchel’s throat closed as painfully as if a noose had tightened around it. “I can’t _tell_ you that. Especially if you won’t open up to me about what you want.” Her breath rattled at the back of her mouth. “You haven’t even told me what your plan to restore what you lost _was._ You can't put this choice in my hands without being honest with me. I am angry that you would try, _lethallin._ ”

He moved slightly, as though he were about to turn to her, then thought better. Whatever breath she had been holding, she lost. His silence had hit her, reopened an old wound that she had been foolish to forget. Even as she urged Eldhru to continue, her heart raced in her chest like she were crossing through a war zone.

“Someday,” she repeated as she passed him by. “I want you to be happy, Solas. Someday, you might accept that.”

She felt his eyes on her back as she led the way down the path.

“I do not doubt you, Ixchel,” he said from behind her. “I only doubt myself.”

 _Me too,_ she thought angrily, and she continued leading him without any of the little excitement she might have held for meeting with Hawen and Clan Feratherien after so much time.

-:-:-:-:-

They led their mounts across the river, skirting a rift as they went. Hawen had circled the aravels beneath one of Ghilan’nain’s harts, and their halla roamed placidly along the riverbank beneath its noble rack. A shout rose up from the camp as Ixchel rounded the riverbend on her hart.

“Inquisitor!”

Taven and Valorin walked quickly out from the aravels. Taven had a wide smile on his face, but Valorin looked a little embarrassed to see them. _“An’daran Atish’an,”_ Taven greeted with open arms.

 _“En’an’sal’enast ea amahn, Sael,”_ she called in return. _“Ea son, Valorin?”_

 _“Ame. Nuvenan ma son,_ Inquisitor,” Valorin replied. His shyness was already beginning to dissolve into thinly-veiled excitement. “We had heard you returned from Halamshiral!”

“Glad to see it was in one piece,” Taven said. “ _Tuelanen i'na, hahren,”_ he said to Solas.

“ _En’an’sal’en, Sael,”_ came Solas’s reply.

Ixchel did not look at him, but she was pleased that he was being polite. She dismounted and tied off her hart to graze, then embraced Taven, and then Valorin, before turning to look at their camp. It was far more lively than any time she had ever seen it, now that they were all reunited and living. She tried to quash her smile before Hawen looked her way, however; the last time she was here, he had been terse with her—he had spoken to her as though she were not one of the People, and he had had no patience for her offers to aide them. Even after she had done so many services to his clan—without being asked, and without asking for anything in return—he had only begrudgingly called her sister. It had taken many moons for him to warm to her.

Her heart raced as he did now turn his stern and appraising gaze upon her. His snowy white hair was pulled back and knotted as severely as ever. Ixchel’s throat was tight as she approached, and she stopped at the entrance to the circle of aravels.

 _“En’an’sal’en, Amelan,”_ she greeted.

 _“Tuelanen i'na,”_ he replied curtly.

 _“Es’an ea tundra ghi’la em amahn su na,”_ she said, and only then did he nod and gesture for her to enter the camp proper. Solas hung slightly behind, seemingly aware that Hawen would address her first.

“It is good to see another of the People, in this place from which we all came,” Hawen said, and Ixchel immediately felt a weight ease from her chest.

“I’m so happy to find so many of us here, safe from the wars of the shems and from the threat of the Elder One,” she replied. “I know it can’t have been easy to travel through the Dirth during this time. And it’s a relief to see that Taven and Valorin have both found their ways home.”

She spied Talim peeking shyly out from the halla den beneath the rocks. The young elf ducked away as soon as she noticed Ixchel looking in her direction.

Hawen chuckled ruefully. “Yes. These are dangerous times. The armies caused rock slides, dug ditches that tripped the halla and destroyed the aravels. The grounds of Var Bellanaris are infested by angry spirits from the beyond. And precisely when I need him most—” he purposefully did _not_ look at Taven, who stood somewhat rigidly beside Ixchel “—my First defies my wishes and mounts an excursion to the Emerald Graves.”

Ixchel nodded as gravely as she could. “Then I’m glad I sent him back as soon as possible,” she said.

“With an aravel so full of artifacts and accounts, we can hardly wait for the next Arlathvhen to distribute them!” Talim called out from the den. Hawen shot her a cold look, and she dove back behind a rock.

“Oh, I am glad that they, too, reached you safely.” She tried very hard not to smile. “That speaks to one of the reasons I have come to you, _Amelan._ We have uncovered something that I believe is of great importance. My enemies, servants of the Elder One, have been plundering the artifacts of our People—perhaps in search of powerful weapons or ancient knowledge. We tracked them to a place of importance to Andruil.”

Ixchel removed Andruil’s bow from her back. Immediately, all eyes were on her, and Hawen took a step forward, his lips parting in awe. She pointed the bow at the ground and drew the string back as though she had knocked an arrow.

A bolt of lightning erupted into her hands, and she held it crackling there as she looked back up at Hawen. “I hold the Gathering Storm, Andruil’s gift, and there are many more in a place I’ve called Ghilan’nain’s Grove. I would entrust these artifacts to you, _Amelan,_ and to our people.”

She relaxed the bowstring and the lightning faded. She held out the bow to Hawen in two hands.

“I… We…” Hawen reached out one hand for the bow, but stopped before he could touch it. “…cannot accept this.”

The clan erupted at once. Hawen was a silent pillar in the midst of the sudden onslaught of noise, but he and Ixchel stared at each other and understood.

“I have considered, whether they would make Clan Feratherien a target,” she agreed. “But you already are, _Amelan._ The Venatori and Red Templars will slaughter any Dalish they come across—just on the off chance that you hold artifacts, or that you might be seeking them too, nearby. I can offer additional soldiers… No.”

At the look on his face, she knew it was a lost cause. She sighed. “Would you just touch it, _Amelan?”_ she asked. “Then maybe you’ll understand why I believe these deserve to be in as many Dalish hands as possible.”

Silence fell around them. Taven made a confused noise behind her, and Hawen seemed just as perplexed. But he laid his hand on the bow at last.

Ixchel felt the charge of sudden magic as it spoke to the Keeper, who wore Andruil’s vallaslin no less. His eyes were on the bow alone as it whispered, and then—and then he looked up at Ixchel. She could immediately tell that he did not have the words for her, so she released the bow into his hands and took a step back.

“Are they all like this?” he asked quietly.

“Many.”

He swallowed. Then, he took the bow in two hands as well and handed it to Taven with great reverence.

When the bow had imparted its knowledge to the First, he looked between Ixchel and Hawen with sudden determination. “We must call it, Hawen,” he said. “We must. There is too much we have learned, and you and the Inquisitor are right—it’s too dangerous to keep this knowledge within Clan Feratherien alone!”

Hawen inclined his head. Then, he raised it again and looked intently at Ixchel.

“These are part of our tale,” she urged.

“And it must be told,” he agreed. “And you…the tales we hear… For _all the world_ to venerate a Dalish elf…” He took in her vallaslin, her ears, the Ardent Blossom in her hair. “Forgive me, _da’len._ I should thank you for ensuring the safety of my family. And I should have trusted them that you have the concerns of the Dalish in your heart.”

Behind her, Taven let out a breath he had been holding. He passed the Gathering Storm off to another clan member.

“What Taven and Talim speak of is something I have considered ever since I read the account of Red Crossing,” Hawen said. “We have nearly come to a decision upon it, but I think…this might be the deciding factor. We must call an Arlathvhen.”

Ixchel’s jaw dropped. But then she raised a hand to her face. “Of course,” she said. “That’s so wise.”

“In the face of the apocalypse, amid the winds of great change, there can be no delay,” Hawen agreed.

Ixchel glanced over her shoulder, then back to Hawen. “If the Inquisition can help ease the communication, or provide protection, or do anything to help the Dalish—my offer stands open.”

 _“Ma serannas, da’len,”_ Hawen said. He gestured behind him. “Come. Sit, and tell me your story. The clans have heard many things, and as any good Dalish, I would rather hear it from the source.”

Ixchel glanced over her shoulder again and pinned Solas with a pointed look before she followed Hawen to the fire pit. The clan gathered around her, perched on the overhanging lips of the aravels, on crates, on drums, and some sprawled on the ground. Talim sat as close as she could get, a wide, childish grin glued to her face. Solas joined them, still keeping to the back.

And, for perhaps the first time, Ixchel told the Dalish her story, in her own words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rogasha'ghi'lan - brave/bold leader/guide/teacher  
> din'an'shiral - path to death / journey of death  
> harellan - rebel/trickster/liar (in that order)  
> An’daran Atish’an - The place you go is a safe place (a greeting)
> 
> En’an’sal’enast ea amahn - Blessed to be here.  
> Sael - First (Dalish position)  
> Ea son, Valorin? - How are you, Valorin?  
> Nuvenan ma son - I hope you are well  
> Tuelanen i'na, hahren - Creators be with you, respected elder  
> En’an’sal’en, Sael - Blessings, First.  
> Amelan - Keeper (Dalish role)  
> Es’an ea tundra ghi’la em amahn su na - They were kind to guide me here to you  
> da'len - little/young one


	79. Halam'shivanas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **SONG** : "Let It All Go" by Birdy + RHODES
> 
> A very important song.
> 
> *steeples fingers*
> 
> -  
> The story of Harralan/Mythallennan is from "Mythallen," a monster in the non-canon DA RPG. They say "Mythallen" means "child of vengeance" but that's not quite right, so I changed it to "child of mythal's vengeance" or "Mythal's child Vengeance" or something like that and took some other small liberties. But it was a surprisingly fitting little vignette...
> 
> 12/8/20

“I do not know what the Marquise plans for the Dales,” Ixchel said toward the end of her story. “I don’t think the Empress knows, or even if the _Marquise_ knows. I am concerned that elves across Thedas will flock to the Dales once more, in hope that they will find freedom from persecution here… But this is the Dirthavaren—a promise, and a promise broken. If we haven’t learned from the past, it’ll repeat itself. It may be backlash from the humans who have settled here, whose lands might be reclaimed and their own lives disrupted. It might be another human civil war. It might simply be overpopulation and starvation. But regardless…”

She clutched a handful of dirt in her hand as she spoke, and now she let it fall through her fingers. “This land will never truly be ours again, until all of Thedas respects the dignity and freedom of its elves.”

The Keeper sat cross-legged across from her, his fingers steepled in front of his nose. “Only a week ago, I would have laughed at you, _da’len._ The Dalish scattered to the winds with our aravels because it was the only way to save our traditions from extermination. The flat-ears made their beds; they did not want to fight, live the difficult clan life, and they lost the way.” He closed his eyes thoughtfully. “The remnants of Clan Halveri joined us for a short time, many months ago, as they brought their dead to Var Bellanaris. When they decided to go to Halamshiral, it was right after the alienage had been purged—and oh, I argued with them.”

He sighed against his fingers, and Ixchel held her breath as she watched him.

“But in you…in you, the Dalish stand for all of Thedas. In Halamshiral, the fortitude and rebellion in our blood withstood those who would crush it…” He opened his eyes again and caught Ixchel’s intent stare. “I do not know where to begin, _da’len._ For so long, our purpose has been to search for what was lost. For so long, this isolated life was the only way to protect our history. What will happen to the last of the Elvhen, should we be crushed under the heel of a _shem_ uprising once again—or bred away into the complacency of a mixed empire?”

“We are the children of the Dales,” Taven said in an unrelenting voice. “We are the unbending, and we are the proud. Who is to say that would be _lost, Amelan?_ Who is to say that we would not instead sow it among the cities, across the empires—like seeds, scattered to the wind? Who is to say we would not be the spark that lights a wildfire, and whatever we are is multiplied thousand-fold?” He glanced at Ixchel and bit his lip to school his smile. “The flat-ears have risen up. Is that not a sign that they still have _mien’harel_ in their blood? It is time to twist our roots together—the elves of Thedas—and _grow.”_

Hawen chuckled. “I now understand why you so insisted I look over the translations from Din’an Hanin,” he said pointedly. “I still don’t know where to begin.”

Ixchel smiled. “Perhaps a meeting of the Keepers will shed light on the path ahead, too, _Amelan,”_ she offered. “I still think that’s the wisest course.”

“Then let us see how we can make this happen. You say you have contacts with Halveri, Ralaferin, Lavellan, Sabrae…”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel wished she could feel happy in the wake of her success with the clan. As it stood, she could not bring herself to claim a victory, with the Dread Wolf hiding in her shadow.

Toward the end of the day, Ixchel, Solas, Valorin, and Taven set out to close the rift on the river and investigate the rumors of Lindiranae’s Talisman. It was an unusual experience for her to be the lone warrior in a group of mages, but with so many barriers upon her she was able to disrupt the rift unbothered even by the Rage demon’s flames, which left the demons stunned and helpless before her chromatic greatsword. Though Valorin was certainly inexperienced, his fire burned hot, and when they found Freemen holdouts in the hidden Shrine to Sylaise, he penned them in a blazing ring until they threw their weapons down and surrendered.

“I’ll watch them,” she said to the others. “Go see what you find.”

Solas watched the boys tackle the elemental barrier and disappear into the next chamber. “A humble shrine,” he mused. “I wonder what it was meant for.”

Ixchel was still at a loss for what to say to him amid her frustration, though she sensed that he was extending an olive branch. _Fuck Sylaise,_ she thought. _I don’t care._

She put her hands on her hips and she stared down the three Freemen. They sat in the corner, knees drawn up to their chins; they looked starved and depressed, and she could only wonder what they hoped for now that their leaders had fallen, the war was over, and they were none the richer. “The Civil War is over,” she said. “There is a new Marquise of the Dales. Perhaps you could petition her with your troubles. But continue as you are, and you are no more than bandits and raiders.”

The men hardly looked at one another. “I suspect we can only hope for a court marshal,” one of them said despondently. “The Empress would not take kindly to deserters, I think.”

“What do you want?” she asked. “You wanted land?”

“I do not even remember,” another man said. “I was tired of killing and waiting to die just for Gaspard’s ego.”

“Same,” the third member said.

“The Commander of my armies left the Templar Order out of a crisis of conscience as well,” Ixchel said quietly. “So I do not look unkindly on desertion alone, you know. Ser Cullen has found honor in serving a cause larger than any nation. We fight against the end of the world at the hands of a darkspawn out of ancient Tevinter—if you want a cause, I would be honored for you to make ours, yours.”

They gawked at her.

“I will even let you walk free, here and now,” she offered. “If you do not trust me to walk you to the Inquisition camp, the nearest one is at the beginning of the Path of Flame, just east of here. You may leave. Return to your families, or go start new ones, or join us. But if I hear that you have taken up banditry, or sadism and butchery—the next time our paths cross, I will have your heads without question.”

She jerked her head toward the door. “Take your time.”

Ixchel walked back to join Solas, who had his hands clasped behind him as he watched for Taven and Valorin, though she was certain he had listened to every word of her exchange. “I’d like us to take them to Ghilan’nain’s Grove, and then come back here to stay the night with the clan,” she said. “Tomorrow we can tackle the demons at Var Bellanaris investigate the veilfire glyphs Hawen mentioned—I’m sure the Venatori will be all over them.”

“Doubtless,” Solas agreed shortly.

She nodded, then felt awkward standing with him in such silence, so she pursued the boys deeper into the Shrine. They were sitting cross-legged with each other, the talisman held in Valorin’s hands between them as they studied it. “Ah, you found it,” Ixchel said pleasantly. “Might I deliver you, and it, back to your Keeper?”

Taven laughed and stood. “Of course, _asa’ma’lin,_ ” he said.

“I can’t believe you helped us find it,” Valorin said ecstatically. Taven let him keep the talisman for the time being, and Ixchel’s heart throbbed at the young boy’s eager face. She thought, briefly, that whatever failures she had accrued, whatever might come, in this life—at least she had saved him.

They headed back to the camp, where Hawen—who still seemed fairly shaken by the revelations and the gifts—turned the talisman over in his hands and then pressed it close against his chest, as though his heart might give out at any moment. “We’ve prepared an aravel to bring to the grove,” he told them. “Taven, I’d like you to stay with the children and Emalien and the halla.”

If Taven was disappointed that he wouldn’t be going to investigate Andruil’s puzzle, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded graciously and put his arm around Talim’s shoulders to keep her rooted to the spot. _“Dareth,”_ he said lightly.

Ixchel and Solas left their mounts at the camp and traveled beside the aravel on foot. The whisper of wind in its sails and the groan of its wheels stirred warm memories of Markham and Terinelan and the Lavellan Clan from when she was a much younger girl. The afternoon sun filtered through the red-and-gold silks of the banners of the Feratherien noble house, preserved through the centuries since the fall of the Dales by her people.

_Their people._

Ixchel asked Hawen about his travels, about famines and lean times, of friendly human settlements and skirmishes with wild things in the forgotten places of the world. She had known many things about Hawen already, but guiding him to topics like the ruins he had explored as a young man felt natural, and she didn’t mind hearing the stories again; after all, it had been many years since she’d heard them.

The Inquisition camp turned their whole attention on to the aravel as it approached, led by the small fleet of nimble halla. Ixchel paused to introduce the captain, and Cassandra. Several of the non-Dalish elves present in the camp seemed in awe of them, and Ixchel decided then and there to introduce every single one of them to every single one of the clan Hawen had brought along. Their accents were varied—Fereldan, Marcher, Orlesian and more—and some of them stumbled over the Dalish greetings, but Ixchel’s throat went tight at how regally and warmly Hawen accepted their attempts and greeted them in return.

Several of her non-Dalish elves accompanied them through the fens to the hidden entrance to Andruil’s vault, to help stave off the gurguts. They stood guard while Ixchel and Solas led the clan members inside, just in case another Horror or something else had taken up residence in the crypts once more.

Fortunately, the soldiers Ixchel had sent to guard them were alive and well. They nodded politely and backed away to allow them free reign of the crypt.

Several of the clan members began cataloging and packing the weapons, while Ixchel led Hawen around the other chambers.

They contemplated Ghilan’nain’s tomb in silence for a long, long time.

“It makes sense to me,” Hawen said at last. “If Ghilan’nain was given godhood and a new, beautiful body—that others would seek such boons from Andruil, after such a test.”

Ixchel nodded. “One wonders how such things were possible. Curing her blindness by turning her into a halla? Or her own ability to create monsters.” She grimaced. “The Graves are full of giants.”

“Has Ithiren told you of _hanal’ghilan?”_ Hawen asked with a chuckle. “I have not ventured out to see her myself, but he swears he saw her himself. He fears for her, with all the roaming shems.”

 _“Hanal’ghilan?”_ Solas repeated.

“The golden halla,” said Hawen. “She is called the Pathfinder. In times of great need, she comes to show the way.”

“I believe she was seen around Var Bellanaris,” Ixchel said, with a hand pressed to her forehead while she tried to recall it. That had been so long ago, and her memory of _hanal’ghilan_ was that of the golden halla leading her into the Temple of Fen’Harel, up to those frescoes that had, at last, revealed to everyone else what she had known for so long…

_“Solas doesn’t want to be that kind of wolf!”_

She sighed. “Solas and I will deal with the demons tomorrow, _Amelan,_ and see if we can’t find _hanal’ghilan.”_

“Thank you, _da’len.”_ Hawen laid a careful hand on top of Ghilan’nain’s gravestone. “As she was raised up from mortal men to stand with our Creators, so let you be raised, to defend this world,” he murmured.

Ixchel swallowed her grimace and bowed her head to acknowledge his prayer, and she knew that Solas’s eyes watched her every reaction. She was just thankful that he did not speak to the elderly Keeper of his painful truths. At least, not yet.

-:-:-:-:-

The night’s tale was that of Harralan, an elf from the Brecillian Forest who became possessed by a Rage demon.

“He, like many of us, looked in awe upon the accomplishments of our ancestors,” Hawen said. “He dreamed of Arlathan, when the People were masters of the land and emperors in their own rights. I remember, as a young man myself, that he argued at an Arlathvhen that we should rise up and take back what was ours, instead of continuing the pageantry of our lives as wanderers living out of wagons. It was many years after he left his clan that I found out what happened to him…”

Instead of seeking glory in the past and celebrating it and carrying it forward, every reminder was just another stark comparison for how the modern elves were shameful shadows of their ancestors. Harralan’s mind was aflame with vengeance, and he heard the call of the demon bound deep within the forest. When he returned to his clan, he had been transformed into something almost beyond recognition. He called himself _Mythal’len’nan._

He had killed many shem, and he threatened his clan: either they help him reclaim Thedas for the elves in blood and glory, or he would kill them all as his enemies. The clan had nearly been wiped out in their effort, for _Mythal’len’nan_ had become a creature of rage, and hate. For all he espoused of concern for the People, he understood nothing of sympathy, compassion, forgiveness, or leadership. Instead, he sought to enslave his own People to his vengeful will—and in doing so, become little better than those who destroyed Arlathan in the first place.

Ixchel tried her _damn_ best not to look at Solas as Hawen told this tale. She had truthfully never heard such a story before, and she hoped Solas did not think she had somehow influenced Hawen into telling it in his presence.

When she did dare to glance in his direction, she saw him touching the jawbone on his chest, staring at her. Somehow, though she could not pinpoint the exact reason, her heart felt as though it had fallen to the bottom of the Buried Sea.

Hawen allowed them to break out a cask of _manise_ after they had reflected on the lessons of Harralan and _Mythal’len’nan_ and how it might pertain to the choices ahead of them all. Ixchel had been trying her best to build up her tolerances with human liquors, but as always, the Dalish stuff hit her like a bronto.

The night passed in a blur, and then, out of seemingly nowhere, she found herself walking under the stars in an open field with Solas. There was nothing but the sky in every direction, and the sounds of the peaceful night washed away everything except the whisper of their steps in the knee-high grass of the Dirthavaren.

She came back to herself in that moment and felt very dizzy.

“Oh,” she said softly. He looked down at her, a sharp motion, as though she had made a non-sequitor of some kind. What had they just been talking about? _“Lethallin,_ I’m _drunk.”_

Solas laughed; a fuzzy heat filled her at the sound. “As you should be, Ixchel,” he purred, and warning horns blew in the back of her mind. “You have accomplished so much today of what you had thought nearly impossible. You deserve to celebrate.”

“Is that what we were talking about?” She frowned and ran a hand through her hair, nearly dislodging the Ardent Blossom. She hurried to fix it, then sighed and sat down in the tall grass to begin picking it out of her hair entirely. Solas laughed again, and his eyes glimmered with good humor as he knelt in front of her and took the blossoms from her hands as she freed them. “If I haven’t apologized already, I should,” she said under her breath. Her mouth tasted so strongly of liquor. “I swear I didn’t know Hawen was going to tell that story. I’ve never even _heard_ that story before.”

“Ixchel,” he said in a low voice. She blinked and focused on his face; his smile had dimmed a little. “I know. You’re not one for parables.”

“But you are,” she said with a twist of her face.

He snorted. “You could not call me _hahren_ if I weren’t,” he pointed out. “And then where would you be?”

She smiled a little, and they were quiet for a moment as she worked on a particularly tangled piece of _Felgaral Dir’vhen’an._ He watched her intently as she gave the task the slow, deliberate focus of the very drunk. She had almost forgotten he was there until he spoke again, somber: “I was alone for so long, _lethallan,_ living among ruins and memories. They told their stories to me—they had no one else to listen. And now I would tell them to you.”

Ixchel’s breath caught. She bit her lip to hold it in, for she felt like bursting, suddenly, as she looked into his eyes and found them both sad, and bright.

_Oh._

She crossed her arms. Half of the Ardent Blossom still remained in her hair, but it was more important in that moment to brace herself physically as she stared him down. “That’s beautiful, but I’m still angry at you,” she said in her most disgruntled tone. “You are thousands of years old, and you are very smart regardless, and I know you too well. It's not fair to ask me my opinion on something I have no awareness of. Then you're just free to misinterpret me! You can either make your own decisions, or speak plainly about them so I can help you!"

“Yes,” he said. There was a note in his voice that she didn’t recognize, but she did not have long to dwell on it, because he was speaking again. “My plan, Ixchel, was to reclaim the orb Corypheus wields so clumsily and use it to tear down the Veil. With the Fade once again imbuing all things, and as the world burned in the raw chaos, I would have restored the world of my time…the world of the elves.”

He held her gaze the entire time he spoke, watching as absolutely no surprise, no shock, not even horror crossed her face. She bit her lip still, still crossed her arms, but now it was not to support herself but to contain herself. She did not blink. She was afraid he might vanish into the night, slip through her fingers now just as he had so many times. They had had this conversation before.

“You must understand,” he continued after a moment, and his voice was rough and laden with emotion—it was _desperation,_ she realized with a start. His face was strained with it, the need for her to understand, and the effort to put to words what it was he truly felt. “I awoke in a world where the Veil had blocked _every_ conscious connection to the Fade. Even your most powerful mages pull upon its powers like one might tug on a loose thread. I was…impatient, frantic, even, to put my plan in motion and restore what was lost.” He exhaled raggedly. “My people _live,_ in my mind, in my _time,_ Ixchel. It is not a foolish—it is not _simply_ a foolish fantasy to want to return. I _could._ And the people who live now— _you_ —are real, too. Every moment I do not act is another moment of torment for _this_ world, another Blight, another broken heart, all on my hands.”

Ixchel sucked in a sharp breath.

“I _know,”_ she said, nearly a rasping wail. “I _understand,_ Solas. The future I went to? I _know_ that it happened to the world. Just because I’m here, in a timeline where it was averted, doesn’t mean it _didn’t happen._ Leliana became a ghoul. You—you— I saw you…”

She turned her head and coughed to disguise a sudden sob, for it was not only Fen’Harel with the blood of worlds on his hands.

Solas took those hands of hers and placed the bundle of Ardent Blossoms in them with care. His warm fingers brushed across her knuckles, then retreated again as though in shame. “I have often underestimated you,” he admitted. “And I have often not heard you, even when you speak plainly to me. I know.”

Ixchel drew her own gaze back to him, though it took all her strength. “Then listen now, Solas, to how I have thought of this conversation—for so long. I would tell you that I am only asking you to let the wheels of entropy turn. Let the blood on your hands dry, and leave the guilt to lay upon the mechanisms of the world,” she said in a rush. “But you would say, _‘I_ made the mechanisms of the world, so there is blood on my hands regardless,’ and use that to justify continuing with your plans.”

“I would have,” he said quietly.

She nearly crushed the blossoms in her white-knuckled hands. The moment stretched long and taught as she waited for him; in the pale starlight, his eyes seemed nearly white in the depths of his hood. He was an unknown to her, a blank mask, and like always, there was nothing she could do to draw him out except wait. So she stared at him in the spinning silence, as the stars wheeled high above them and the songs of the crickets and night birds in the distance ceased, attentive to him—the Maker and the Destroyer, Betrayer and Trickster, Liar and Rebel.

His back was nearly bowed where he sat across from her, under the weight of the worlds he carried, and his fingers knotted anxiously in the grass between them.

“But… I have already gone to Elsewhere,” he whispered. “And I have found someone I would like to make my own. I could find happiness with you.” His head slowly dropped to the side, and his hood slipped back to free one ear, let one side of his face illuminate in the soft starlight from above. The other half was only plunged into deeper darkness. “But the moment I accept that…is the moment that an entire world dies at my hand. It is the _din’an’shiral_ no matter which path I take. But it is my _duty_ to restore my People.”

Ixchel closed her eyes. She felt the cold of the night seep into her, from the ground, from the air; it swept through her hair and into somewhere deep in her. With it came a shining, crystal moment of sobriety—or the worst kind of intoxication. Detached from herself, both lucid and dreamy all at once, she said:

“The memory-magic that speaks in voices, feelings…images. I found another, long ago. I did not understand what I saw, but now I recall it: a vine as tall as a tower, spiraling into the sky. Many of them coiled together as I watched, reaching as they blossomed. The flower buds were as big as a man, and the open petals were as large as lakes.”

She took a deep breath, and she could almost _smell_ the memory of citron, the fresh sky, and sweet death all at once. “And I watched the blooms die, one by one until there was only one left, on one vine. The observer watched it wither, too, and they wept, and recorded the memory. ‘It was the last of its kind, and so much more than the last of me,’ they said, and then they left for uthenera—to be able to remember the flowers forever.”

She tilted her head back to look up at the sky, though she did not open her eyes. “Maybe that was their _din’an’shiral._ But what was the point of this _memory?_ It had been hidden away, not even in a place of prominence, until I found it. The point was the act of outpouring itself. They gave that flower new life in the retelling alone.”

She took a deep breath, then released it to the heavens in a long, slow sigh.

“My _duty_ is not to spend my life searching for the alchemy or the magic to bring that vine back to life, to replant it, to breed it.” She smiled a little, sad, heavy—sleepy, despite herself. “I may not live forever, but for now, that flower has new life in me. And my duty to that flower, and to the Rememberer, is to give it new life in the retelling.”

Solas jerked as though she had stung him with her words. She looked back down from the sky to find his gaze fixed sharply on her, his delicate lips parted in surprise, speechless at her. Helpless surprise had never been so enrapturing; she found that she could not look away from the light in his eyes. In them, she tried to find the hope she wanted to kindle in him, tried to impress the abundant love and understanding she had for him, tried to convince him of her unswaying loyalty with her will and gaze alone. Soft waves of starlight fell on his high cheekbones and sharp brow, he was beautiful, and he was broken. Likewise, it seemed that he saw her again in a new light, and the intensity of his sudden _attention_ on her made her insides twist and burn.

Solas gave a slight shake of his head as though chiding her—or himself.

And then he surged forward, and he kissed her.


	80. Honey Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had a hard time with a song... "Inside Out" by the Chainsmokers
> 
> 12/9/20

It was unlike any other kiss they had shared. It was fierce, it was fast, it was desperate. Every line of his body was tense beside her, pushing, and she had to reach up to cling to him for fear that she might fall. Where their first _real_ kiss, under the stars in the Hinterlands, had ebbed and flowed like a placid lake upon its shore, _this_ kiss surged and surged like a tempest. She was lost in the kiss, dizzied by it; his mouth was hot against hers, and upon her startled breath he pressed closer as though to consume her entirely. There was nothing she could do but let him kiss her ardently, let his lips and jaw work to express himself in that moment.

They breathed so raggedly when they drew apart, it was as though they had just slain a dragon. Ixchel met his gaze fiercely, fearlessly, assessing him from beneath the heavy fringe of her lashes. His eyes were clear, and they were dark, and they were honest; she found no apology there, none rising to his lips.

Yet even now, words rose to hers that she knew she could not let herself speak—not yet, not now—but she also knew that she could not contain them. To silence them, yet still to speak them without words, she tightened her grip on his cloak and pulled him back to her urgently.

He was more than willing to kiss her again, and this time he tugged at her lower lip with his teeth until she was gasping and allowed his tongue entrance to her mouth. His hands stoked both flames and shivers wherever he touched: they were against her cheeks, behind her ears, in her hair, along her neck; he held her to him by her face alone and ravished her mouth.

Her mind was a whirling, swirling storm of utter want; she had never known such a potent longing before. It felt as though her heart wanted to leap out from its cage and join his. She could imagine that this was what it must feel like, as a Spirit, to fully encompass one’s purpose. It was at once a joyous and desperate feeling, and she craved its assured totality. She rose up on to her knees to meet him with the same fervor.

When he pulled away the second time, he pressed his forehead to hers. _“Ir abelas,”_ he whispered. “I have loved you all along, Ixchel.”

She slid her hands around his shoulders, pressed the flat of them against the blades and curled her fingers back to harness him there, to ground him. She opened her eyes and found him so close that even in the dark, she could count the freckles that dusted his nose.

Ixchel again felt the pull deep in her chest, in her being—a promise so close to being fulfilled. _“’Ma’sal’shiral,”_ she told him softly.

His eyes glistened with uncharacteristic wetness; Solas, the ever-immovable bastion, couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe.

Their noses brushed, their lips were but a hair’s breadth away as she said, “And it changes nothing, does it?”

A tear spilled down his cheek.

 _“Var lath vir suledin,”_ she traced her oath against his lips with her own as he slipped his arms around her, warm as he embraced her. The Ardent Blossoms whispered as they fell from her lap, and Solas loosed a heavy sigh and bowed his head against her shoulder. She adjusted her hold on him and rubbed slow, soothing paths across his back, and they breathed together in the starlight.

Ixchel was suddenly, painfully sober…and oh so very tired.

She leaned her head to the side and rested it against his own. She did not know if he still cried. She could never know what he was thinking. But he clung to her as a man weathering a storm, and she would hold him until the Veil tore itself apart, if that was what he required of her.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel opened her eyes and regretted it immediately.

She was in the middle of the Feratherien camp on her own bedroll, surrounded by the other sleeping clan members. Her belongings were piled neatly by her head—which was pounding. It was not yet dawn, by the looks of it, but it was already too bright for her. Her eyes felt swollen, her mouth was as dry and Blighted as the Western Approach, and her head and neck felt like she’d been slapped by a dragon’s tail whip. As she sat up, her stomach churned dramatically, but she breathed deeply and was able to settle it after a moment.

Ixchel looked around for Solas and found him still asleep on his own bedroll, closer to the back of the camp, along the wall. She couldn’t, for the life of her, tell if she had dreamed of the night’s events or if they had simply occurred prior to her utter black-out at the mercy of Dalish whiskey. She brushed her fingers across her lips and thought that, they were a bit dry, and maybe they were a little kiss-bruised. Unless that was her imagination.

No, she _couldn’t_ have imagined that whole conversation. It was too clear—too important.

She swallowed. Solas had opened his eyes and caught her staring.

His chest rose and fell slowly while he regarded her. The slight draw between his brows told her that he, too, was thinking of what they had said.

Ixchel knew she should be worried. There might never be a day where she _could_ stop worrying about him. He held the power, and the knowledge, to end the world. He had done so, in another life of hers. There was nothing she could do to close that door for him forever. She knew that this was a duty without end—holding back the end of the world with her arms and her heart alone.

But for now, he loved her. And maybe, maybe, this time it could be enough.

Ixchel could not contain her smile. It was girlish and bright despite the ache in her head, and it garnered a look from him that warmed her in return. He broke his gaze by turning his head away, as though to try and hide his sheepish grin from her. Ixchel treasured the brief glimpse of it like the miracle it was, and it gave her the strength to get to her feet and remember how to live. She dressed slowly in her armor, for she had to stop frequently to breathe and settle her stomach, but soon enough she was ready to face whatever the day might bring.

She gathered up the individual blossoms of _Felgaral Dir’vhen’an,_ and she picked her way carefully through the sleeping bodies to go down to the river and do her hair.

Solas followed when she was almost done. He picked up one of the remaining blossoms and tucked it into place above her ear.

 _“On dhea,”_ he said softly.

She smiled up at him, and she was pleased to find that he could not resist returning one of his own. No darkness entered his eyes now—not regret, not grief. The light she saw in his face warmed her as surely as the sun might, and it filled her heart to bursting, until she could hardly breathe. She caught his hand before it left her hair and held it to her cheek.

No. That had been no dream.

 _“Ar lath ma,”_ she replied.

His smile grew, and he was almost smiling too much to kiss her when he dipped down to do so. She kept his hand pressed against her cheek as they kissed, and she was slow to open her eyes when he did lean away at last.

“Ready to face the day?” he asked.

She grimaced. “Not particularly. I would very much like to go back to sleep.”

Solas’s hand against her cheek burned like a hot poker, then grew cool. He brushed his thumb against her cheekbone, and healing magic seeped into her skin. He swept his fingers around to the back of her head and guided her to kiss him again as he pushed magic against the tight knots in her neck and shoulder.

“I was hoping you’d do that,” she mumbled gratefully. Her headache had melted away into nothingness, and a cool, clear peace had settled in its place.

He chuckled. “If you truly plan on herding _hanal’ghilan,_ you will need to be in peak condition,” he said. He held out his hand to help her stand, but instead of releasing her, he drew her closer. Ixchel tilted her head back to consider him with pursed lips, and he drank in the sight of her for a moment more—before kissing her again, slow and searing.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said against her lips, “but I feel that I have quite a bit to make up for.”

“That you do,” she agreed. “But… I also have demons to fight.”

She did not pull away as he kissed her again.

“And halla to herd,” he added.

She stood on her toes to follow him when he leaned back. “As long as I don’t need to chase Fen’Harel, I think I can manage it all.”

He nipped at her bottom lip. “No, now he chases you.”

Incongruous with his dark, husky tone, he still hadn’t managed to stop smiling at her. “You are so much lighter, Solas,” she said in an awe-struck whisper. He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. “I don’t think I have ever seen you this…”

“Happy,” he finished.

“Is that what it is?” She smirked despite herself, then tried to grow serious again. “Never forget I loved you in the dark, too, Solas.”

“And I you.” He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, and the spark of hope that had been kindled within her roared into an inferno. She hugged him closer, for she had no words to communicate what she felt in that moment, except that she needed to be close.

“We _should_ go find _hanal’ghilan,”_ she said, with no intention of moving. His soft laugh welled up from deep in his chest, under her ear.

“As you say. _Ma ghilana,_ Ixchel. But I don’t think we’ll catch her this way.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

She did not let go of his hand the whole way to Var Bellanaris.

Ixchel shook her head when she saw it was only a handful of shades that had taken up residence in the sacred site. She seemed to recall that the last time she had been here, there was at least one Terror demon. Before she could comment on the disappointing showing, or even move for her sword, Solas had extended his arm and made a motion quite similar to her own when she used the Anchor to close rifts.

Of course, he was much more controlled than she was with the unwieldy power in her palm. A tiny pinprick in the Veil was enough to drag each and every shade to the spot where he had opened the rift, and as they screeched and flailed beneath its green aura, they began to melt and disintegrate away.

 _“’Ma serannas,”_ she said, awed. She looked down at the Anchor. “Corypheus called what I do clumsy flailing…”

“But you make it look ever so heroic,” Solas assured her.

Ixchel bit her tongue and tried to ignore him. At some point, she was going to need to inoculate herself to the light-headed, careless feeling he could summon in her with his openly-embraced love. She slipped her hand from his. “I’m going to check the back,” she said. “Keep a look out for _hanal’ghilan?”_

_“Ma nuvenin.”_

The Inquisitor unhooked the chromatic great sword from her belt and set off into the grave site. She found no more shades, but she found the fresh graves of Clan Halveri.

She walked between the neat rows slowly and paid her respects. She whispered to them about their brave Keeper, and the good work she was doing in Halamshiral. She promised them their deaths would not be in vain. She did her best to commit their names to memory.

 _Mala suledin nadas,_ she thought to herself.

She returned to Solas and found him looking out in the direction of the water. “It is true,” he said softly. “You were right to set out early. The sun has caught her horns like a beacon.”

Ixchel reached for his arm and placed it over her shoulders. He looked down at her with a look of gentle understanding, and he wrapped his hand around her upper arm and held her tight.

She closed her eyes briefly, drawing strength from his embrace, and then she stepped forward in the direction where _hanal’ghilan_ grazed.

-:-:-:-:-

It took most of the day to herd the golden halla back to Clan Feratherien, but Ixchel hardly noticed the passage of time. She and Solas raced across the plains with a vigor and joy that was uncharacteristic of either of them, racing and chasing and laughing like children. Perhaps it was because there was no one to observe them. Perhaps it was that the tight restraints of their guilt and propriety had been shed at last, and this was their first taste of freedom after such a long fast.

At one point, Solas nearly tackled her in an attempt to cut off _hanal’ghilan’s_ path. The halla had simply leaped over them on nimble hooves, while Ixchel and Solas had gone rolling off in the grass.

Ixchel tried to end up on top, but Solas—Solas was wiry and wily and intent on thwarting her. When she realized, she gave in entirely and allowed him to flip her around heavily onto her back. She had a wild grin on her face as she lay with Solas suspended above her by one elbow and an extended hand. There was a breathless moment as he hung there, and she tilted her chin up at him, and their chests heaved with the thrill and exertion.

 _“Ar lath ma,”_ he breathed. He dove down to kiss her, fleeting, and her hand shot up to catch him before he could depart as she knew he would.

Holding his gaze, she slowly wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back close. His breath hadn’t settled yet, and their cuirasses rasped as he let his body settle against hers. She let herself melt into the ground as he swept his tongue languorously against hers. One of his hands found the shell of her ear as he kissed her, and she gave him a shuddering sigh for his effort.

He pulled away to take in her expression with a hungry, but almost disbelieving look.

Before she could say anything else, his eyes flicked up to something in the distance. “Ah. She’s going back the way we came.”

Ixchel gave him a shove. “Dread Wolf take you!”

He laughed, then took off running from his crouch. She rolled over to watch him for a moment, trying to imagine _Solas,_ running for _fun,_ chasing a flighty _halla_ for her. It was a completely wild image, and if she hadn’t been watching him she wouldn’t have believed herself. She waited for him to herd _hanal’ghilan_ back in her direction before she leaped to her feet and set off running to catch up with his coat tails.

-:-:-:-:-

When _hanal’ghilan_ came into view of the camp, she seemed to realize where she was and what her purpose was meant to be. Ixchel stopped and watched her run to meet Ithiren, and she put her hands on her hips, satisfied.

Solas caught up with her more slowly.

“I did not think there was anything inherently magical about her,” he said breathlessly. “Yet, for a wild thing, she seems…”

“She knows,” Ixchel agreed. She took a deep breath. She had been reminded of Terinelan, and her heart—swollen as it was with relief and love—was lanced briefly with pain. “Terinelan’s parents were halla keepers. He’s very fond of them.” She looked back at Solas briefly. “Even the ones who pull the aravels are wild at heart. They’re fearful and shy creatures. But the Dalish asked them to follow us, to stay…and they step into the harness willingly.”

The line of Solas’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “A romantic notion.”

She choked on a laugh. “He was trying to convince me that I should ask the people I love to stay with me,” she admitted.

Solas was silent.

“I think it also implies that loving me is a lot of work,” she added. “Can’t deny that, honestly.”

“It is not a reason not to try,” Solas said, coming up beside her. He laced their hands together and held them to his chest. His heart still raced from exertion. “And it has its perks.”

She was beaming as she led him back to camp.

From there, she gathered most of the clan to come investigate the Ancient Baths to the north. She was not surprised to find it swarming with Venatori, and she was glad to have brought the back-up. The Tevinter mages tried to burn their notes before the elves could get to them, but enough of the writings survived after the battle for Ixchel to get a good idea of what Corypheus was looking for. It was unsurprising to her, of course.

“They’re searching for ancient Elvhen super weapons. They think this land was Dirthamen’s, and because he was ‘twin souls’ with Falon’Din, they think he helped hide something for the ‘God of Death.’”

“Fools,” Solas said contemptuously.

“From these glyphs, there seems to be a meeting place, or a sacred space, for Dirthamen’s most faithful,” Taven said, also sorting through the notes. “Maybe _Sael_ Neria will be able to piece together a location based off of the position of the moon with respect to the constellations in this tracing…”

Ixchel chewed her lip. “You don’t want to yourself?”

“I believe we’ll be quite busy with planning the Arlathvhen,” Taven demurred. “Neria has more experience with this kind of thing, anyway. I have never been one to chart the stars.”

Ixchel accepted the notes and tucked them into her cuirass to take back to camp. She would be going to Skyhold soon enough and she could deliver them to Neria in person. What a way to make a good impression, she thought happily.

There were hardly any artifacts to be found at the Ancient Baths, which they had expected, considering it had been out in the open for so long. After burning the Venatori bodies on the riverbank, Ixchel, Solas, and the clan headed back to camp—where Ixchel found that her white hart, Eldhru, had been decorated with ribbons and paint again, like he had in Halamshiral, in an homage to halla on Ghilan’nain’s feast day.

Hawen turned to her with a smile that brought a smile of her own to her face. _“Da’len,”_ he said as he embraced her. He seemed to have no other words, so she hugged him in return and just accepted the pure sentiment of it.

“Where will you go next, Inquisitor?” Talim asked excitedly.

“My fortress in the mountains: _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ ,” Ixchel said, moving to embrace the young elf next. “I set fire to Orlesian society, so I’m sure my Ambassador will have plenty for me to do when I arrive. I have all of these notes for _Sael_ Neria, and I have things to organize for your clan to arrange the Arlathvhen…”

She hadn’t mentioned the judgments that awaited her, or the doubtless mountain of espionage her Seneschal had amassed, or the troop movements she needed to coordinate with Cullen, or the work she needed to do with Dagna.

Talim’s eyes shone with admiration. “It’s like you’re a Dalish queen,” she said, voice shaking with the thrill of the picture.

“Don’t envy me, _da’len,”_ Ixchel warned as she moved to say goodbye to the rest of the clan.

She clasped hands with Taven last, then let Hawen kiss her brow once more before she and Solas departed.

It was late when they reached the fens camp, but the glow of the eluvian illuminated it like daylight. Soldiers ringed the eluvian, their swords drawn, and Ixchel saw a dark figure framed against the bright portal.

Ixchel leaped off her hart and ran to see who had arrived.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said. “Perhaps you can break this stalemate? I admit I did not dress for a fight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man... i miss the happiness of admitting your love to someone and finding they return it. hope they enjoy it while it lastsssss
> 
> \--
> 
> ir abelas - i'm sorry  
> 'ma'sal'shiral - you are my soul's journey (you are the love of my life)  
> var lath vir suledin - our love will endure  
> ar lath ma - i love you  
> ma ghilana - you lead me  
> ma nuvenin - as you say  
> mala suledin nadas - now you must endure


	81. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my favorite ladies in one chapter uwu
> 
> thank you for 400+ comments, 5k hits, and 150 kudos Q_Q <3 I love all of you, commenters and silent readers alike. I hope you continue to enjoy this tale! We're not even halfway...
> 
> 12/10/20

Ixchel nodded at her soldiers, and they immediately broke their ranks and returned to their tasks. Some ogled Morrigan over their shoulders as they went, for she was as striking as ever—especially when dressed in so little clothing for the crisp night, as she was. Ixchel looked around as the soldiers dispersed. “Where’s Lady Pentaghast? Cole?”

The lead officer cleared his throat. “A group of Freemen had set up on the road by the bridge to the north, Inquisitor. Lady Pentaghast and the boy took a group of soldiers to remove them. We expect them back shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Ixchel reached Morrigan. “I did not expect you so soon, Morrigan. Have you settled in at Skyhold, then?”

Morrigan hummed. “Indeed I have, Inquisitor. Kieran and I are quite humbled by the grand apartment we have been allocated, and I have found a suitable home for my eluvian as well.” She turned slowly to regard the mirror behind her. “It took me three days, but I found a route to the Hall of Uthenera, as you called it. ‘Tis rather circuitous, but I suppose that is a small price to pay in order to keep the Marquise’s agents out of my network.” She gestured with her chin. “If you give me a date and time for your return, I can fetch you.”

“Share a meal with us, and maybe when Cassandra and Cole return, we could be ready to leave,” Ixchel offered. “Otherwise, we’d be looking at tomorrow morning or afternoon, I think.”

Morrigan nodded at her and raised her hand to the eluvian. Its magic winked out and plunged them all back into darkness. Ixchel turned then to Solas. “Morrigan, this is my dear companion Solas. He is a talented Dreamer and a very knowledgable scholar of Elvhenan,” she said. “Solas, Morrigan is a talented mage and scholar of her own. She helped the Hero of Fereldan slay the Archdemon and has worked to preserve the secrets and history and powers of the past.”

Morrigan and Solas regarded each other coolly. Ixchel half-expected them to unhook their staves and compare them immediately. She rather wished she had prepared Solas to meet Morrigan, but then again, she didn’t know what she might tell him that wouldn’t be too revealing. “’Tis interesting, how the Inquisitor describes us to each other,” Morrigan said in her low, pointed way. “Perhaps it tells me what you value, Messere.”

“Or at least how the Inquisitor might like us to be of use,” Solas demurred.

Ixchel sighed. “If we’re being direct, then I’d like the two of you to be friends. Rather that than rivals, at least.”

Solas raised an eyebrow. “She believes we could be rivals, Lady Morrigan.”

Ixchel threw up her hands. “Or you could pick on me. So be it. I’m going to go see what I can scrounge up for food.”

Morrigan and Solas both chuckled at her as she walked off to do as she had said. They followed her more slowly; from what she could hear as she prepared the nightly meal with the cooks on duty, the two apostates were performing as though they were at the highest tiers of the Grand Game. Each question was overly polite, but pointed and born out of suspicion. Ixchel honestly should have expected no less.

“’Tis a large fortress, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said as they sat by the fire a little later. “To think, until recently it stood decrepit, occupied only by the desperate and the lost. Now it is party to events that threaten the world. I wonder if it is pleased?”

Ixchel smiled a little. “I think we’re living up to its namesake,” she said.

“Ah, yes. _Tarasy’lan,”_ mused Morrigan. “‘The place where the sky is kept.’ It is said that from there, the ancient elvhen reached up to the heavens to bring it down to rest. Yes, that is indeed auspicious, considering what Corypheus intends.”

 _“Tarasyl’an Te’las,”_ Solas corrected.

“Oh?” Morrigan blinked her golden eyes. “‘The place where the sky was held back’?” She smirked. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

Ixchel snorted.

“How did you find such a place, Messere?” Morrigan asked, turning her gaze on the hedge mage.

He considered her smugly. “I looked.”

Ixchel put her face in her hands. She couldn’t help it. But fortunately for her, at that moment, Cassandra and Cole joined them with the remaining soldiers. There was blood on Cassandra’s sword and shield, and Cole’s pale face was splattered with red as well.

The Seeker’s eyes widened at the sight of Morrigan sitting across the fire from Ixchel.

“Cassandra, this is Morrigan. Morrigan, this is Seeker Pentaghast.”

“As long as you do not _seek_ to put me in a Circle, I do not think we will quarrel, Lady Pentaghast,” Morrigan said with the gentlest of barbs in her tone.

Cassandra snorted. “I would not think to try,” she said. “Leliana has told me enough stories of the Hero of Ferelden.” She sat down heavily on Ixchel’s other side and reached for a nearby rag to begin cleaning her arms and armor. “Leliana has wondered, Morrigan, whether Corypheus’s dragon is really an Archdemon. I would defer to your expertise.”

Morrigan’s smirk faded. “I have not seen it myself as of yet, but I do not doubt Sister Nightingale’s judgment. It almost certainly has the _appearance_ of an Archdemon. But why has it not heralded a Blight?” She shook her head. “His dragon is something else, something connected to his Blighted nature as well as his magic. Beyond that, I cannot say until I have done more research.”

“Where will you begin?” Solas asked.

“The earliest recordings of the Chantry tales,” Morrigan said. Her long lashes caught on her fringe as she blinked at Solas from behind the veil of her hair. “Several strange mosaics—early Tevinter, it seems—have been uncovered on Inquisition expeditions. They appear to depict the Magisters Sidereal, but there are other ways to revisit such history… ‘Twould be wise to understand the source of his power, both to thwart it, and to predict what it is he seeks now.”

Ixchel cleared her throat. “He said, ‘By my power alone, I will return to the Fade, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this Blighted world. Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.’”

Cassandra sucked in a sharp breath. “Maker. What does he mean, to ‘correct this Blighted world’?”

The Inquisitor shrugged and didn’t look at Solas. “I honestly doubt he regrets bringing the Blight out of the Black City,” she said. “He harnesses its power like it’s a type of magic itself. And it’s made him far more powerful than anyone could imagine.”

Morrigan pursed her lips. “Quite. Some might think Corypheus seeks to be a god, and that his madness is in thinking it lies within the walls of the Black City… Yet one must ask: what _were_ the old gods? What secrets of theirs did the old Magisters learn?” The witch fixed her owl-like gaze upon Ixchel. “And why _did_ they think to enter the Black City?”

“I am not well-acquainted with Chantry history,” Solas said breezily. “Perhaps the Seeker may shed some light on their teachings regarding the subject.”

Cassandra nodded at Solas with some hesitation. “Yes. Divine Amara struck it from the Chant, but the Canticle of Silence, the Old God of Silence spoke to his High Priest and told him:

_“Open the gates._  
_To my Golden City you must sojourn._  
_At the foot of my throne, I shall anoint you,_  
_most favored of my disciples,_  
_And I shall raise you up to godhood_  
_that all mortals shall know your glory.”_

Morrigan hummed as Cassandra spoke. “So Dumat claimed it was _his_ Golden City,” she noted. “If I recall—and, like Solas, _this_ humble apostate has not memorized such things as you have, so correct me, Seeker—the other Old Gods spoke similarly to their own High Priests.”

“But they found only the Maker,” Cassandra said harshly, “and he cursed them for their sins.”

Ixchel rested her chin on her hand. “Yes, Morrigan,” she said before the conversation could continue, “I think you have _quite_ the study ahead of you. I hope we can provide the resources to make it worthwhile.” She smirked a little at her other companions. “I hear we’ve managed to find a heretical archivist for Dorian. Perhaps they will be of assistance, too.”

Solas blinked down at her with a gleam in his eye. She blinked back up at him, smirk growing, and then she turned back to Morrigan, who was speaking again.

“You were kind to welcome my aid, Inquisitor. I will do my best to aid your cause with all the knowledge at my disposal. This I swear to you.” She gave Cassandra a pointed look before continuing. “’Tis remarkable, what you have built. I’ll give you that. Leliana has built a network of spies that spans the length of Thedas.”

“But she still could not find the Hero of Ferelden,” Ixchel teased.

Morrigan shook her head, smiling a little. “All this…summoned by fervor alone… I wonder if Corypheus suspected what he was enabling, just as I wonder what will become of all this once he is defeated.”

“I think on it often,” Ixchel assured her in a more somber voice. She looked at Cassandra. “I think, given the way the foundation of Orlais, and the Chantry, and the Marches, have been shaken…there may be many threats awaiting us on the other side—regardless of whether Corypheus succeeds or fails.”

“Indeed. I fear not only what will happens if Corypheus attains the power he seeks…but also what it may cost the world for him to fail.” Cassandra shook her head. “I know Lady Montilyet and Sister Leliana have spent a great deal of time thinking of how the Inquisition might operate once our founding purpose has been met. But I cannot afford to think of anything other than the present danger. Maker guide us… I hope we will be in a position to help afterward.”

-:-:-:-:-

They were not quite ready to leave for Skyhold after all, so Morrigan promised to return in the morning to show them the secret path she had found through Briala’s network of eluvians. Ixchel watched her leave with envy—she was _quite_ looking forward to curling up in her new bed with Amarok and Cole—or, perhaps, even Solas. She missed the snow-flooded view from her balcony. She looked forward to seeing Solas’s additions to the frescoes in the rotunda. She wanted to go _home._

Instead, just before she was ready to retire, she and Solas went through the eluvian and sought out the portal that would take them to Dorian, Vivienne, and the Iron Bull.

Dorian was the only one to greet them when they arrived.

“Ah, _mula,”_ he said wearily. “Back so soon?”

“Just came to check in and let you all know that we’ll be headed back to Skyhold in the morning,” she said.

“Ah, so the witch _did_ find a path?” He shrugged. “We’ve made only a little progress in the last, what, two days? If Leliana finds anything new, maybe you should deliver it firsthand. The ravens do have a long way to go.”

“I’ll be sure to,” she said. “Where’s Madame de Fer?”

Dorian hesitated for a moment too long.

“Dorian?”

“Vivienne… Has locked herself in a room down the hall, working her alchemy,” he said slowly. “As far as I can tell, at least. I don’t believe she has left it to eat or otherwise since you gave her that urn.”

Ixchel looked at Solas. “Do you know what wyvern hearts are used for?”

He shook his head slowly. “There are many alchemical formulations that might require such a potent ingredient.”

Dorian snapped his fingers. “Yes, but how many of them would a vain, power-hungry, imperial court Enchantress be interested in?”

Ixchel raised her eyebrows. “Be nice.”

“It’s a youth potion!” Dorian said urgently, under his breath. “What a waste of our time! Not that we’re doing anything else at the moment, I suppose…”

Ixchel frowned. “Maybe I should speak with her.” She glanced back at Solas, then stood on her tiptoes to peck his cheek. “Play nice, _‘ma’lath,”_ she said, then headed out past Dorian before either of them could remark on the new development in her relationship.

When the door closed behind her, her ears were burning.

So were Solas’s.

It was fairly easy to find Vivienne’s room: it smelled _strongly_ of burning metal and elfroot. Ixchel paused outside and scrunched her nose to fight off a sneeze, and then she knocked. “Vivienne, it’s me. Just checking in.”

There was a shuffle behind the door, and then it swung open. Vivienne was across the room, her hand extended behind her back to magically pull the door open. “Come in, Inquisitor,” she said. She was bent over a small cauldron on a very fine stand, heated by blue magic flames.

Vivienne’s voice was haggard and strained. But when Ixchel approached and came ‘round the cauldron to face her, she found Vivienne’s face as fierce and fine as ever.

The Enchantress raised her head. “Auspicious timing, my dear,” she said. “You have been a dear freind, and I…would like you to deliver this with me.” She held Ixchel’s gaze for a moment, and then her own dropped down to the cauldron again. “It should only take a moment.”

Ixchel sensed something was off. “My lady,” she said quietly. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

Vivienne ran a taloned finger along her brow. “No… No, you have done all you could. _I_ have done all I can. I simply require your…presence.”

Ixchel nodded. “Of course.”

Vivienne went to a nearby table and picked up an opaque vial. She returned to the cauldron and ladled a dose of the silvery potion into the container, corked it, and then turned to a door at the side of the room. Ixchel followed her unquestioningly into a narrow adjoining hallway, through which they passed by a grander washroom than any Ixchel had ever been privvy to, and into an adjoining bedroom.

It was a grand room—nearly a hall of its own. A long Nevarran rug was stretched out from the main door up to the raised dais where an orante Orlesian bed perched, squat and regal. The tall bay windows were thrown open to allow the cool night air to filter in, bearing with it moonlight. Only a few candelabras were lit in the room: one at the bedside, and the others lining the path up to the bed along the red carpet.

In the bed lay an elderly man. His white hair was cropped short, and his frail frame was hidden beneath a mass of fine blankets and furs. Any movement of his chest was obscured by the fabric as well; he either slept, or he had left for Maker’s Bosom already.

A motion from Vivienne brought Ixchel’s gaze back to the Enchantress. She found the taller woman watching the man in the bed with a heartbroken expression as she hugged herself.

Ixchel put her hand on Vivienne’s elbow to offer her silent comfort. She did not know who this man was, but it was more than a simple client. The Inquisitor had known as much from Vivienne’s troubled manner in Halamshiral, and the secrecy with which she handled the letter that had asked for her services.

Vivienne took a deep breath, then approached the bedside.

“I’m here, my darling,” she said, only just barely loud enough for Ixchel to hear.

“Vivienne…?”

The Enchantress visibly started. “Yes, darling?” she asked breathlessly.

“It’s going to be alright, my love,” the man rasped. He raised a weak hand, and she clasped it in her own.

“Please,” she begged. “Just let me try.”

He chuckled weakly but did not answer.

Vivienne quickly uncorked the potion and, presumably, held it up to the man’s lips. Ixchel covered her own mouth in trepidation, already hurting for Vivienne’s sake.

There was a soft sigh. “There is nothing here now…for either of us,” the man said. “It is simply time.” Vivienne lowered herself to her knees, and she clasped the man’s hand in hers and bowed her head over it in silence.

Ixchel stood there watching this vigil for what felt like an eternity. She had not removed her hands from over her mouth, and tears had blurred her vision. She could feel Vivienne’s spirit straining to be patient, to force her potion to work by sheer force of will and prayer.

Somewhere in that silent eternity, the man sighed for the last time, and fell still.

“There’s nothing here now,” Vivienne repeated to herself. She did not raise herself from the ground, but she turned to look at Ixchel. Her face was a careful mask, and somehow, looking at Ixchel, she only regained more of her composure.

“I’m so sorry,” Ixchel breathed. “Vivienne…”

The Enchantress found the strength to stand. She walked the few steps to reach Ixchel, and then turned to face the bed again. “I can hardly believe…” she whispered. “I will never know if it was my failure, or his victory, that stole him from me. My Bastien…willful to the end.”

Ixchel suddenly understood who this was, and what had happened. She held her hand out for Vivienne, and the Enchantress took it. The woman’s hand was drier and more rough than Ixchel had expected; she had clearly been working ceaselessly on her potion since Ixchel had delivered the heart.

“I must write to his son Laurent,” Vivienne said suddenly. Her shoulders straightened—her purpose had been regained. “And his sister will make a terrible fuss if she isn’t informed first. And I’ll need to arrange for the Chantry services. Maker only knows how long that will take.”

The Inquisitor knew better than to suggest that Bastien’s sister and his heir should arrange such things. It was clear from the light in Vivienne’s eye that the woman needed this. Needed to be helpful. Needed to be in control of something, where control had just been stolen away from her by death and time.

“Take whatever you need,” Ixchel said. “And if I can help any more, just ask.”

Vivienne seemed to see Ixchel for the first time. She blinked at the Inquisitor slowly. “No. You have pressing matters of your own to attend to.” She took a deep, centering breath. “I would like to say that I shan’t let this get in the way, but—”

“Take _whatever_ you need,” Ixchel repeated. “Time, space. Whatever.”

Vivienne nodded and squeezed Ixchel’s hand. “Thank you, my dear… I shall.”


	82. Elsewheres

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that TRAILER, HUH?
> 
> My predictions under a spoiler in the end notes below because I have no one in my life to share my excitement except with you, my dears.
> 
> 12/11/20

Ixchel returned to Solas and Dorian and tried to keep the trouble out of her face.

“Vivienne was commissioned as Court Enchanter,” she told Dorian. “I’ve given her permission to fulfill her duties. They’re important to her.”

Dorian shrugged. “I presume you’ll be joining us if we need to lay siege to Samson’s fortresses anyway. I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “After your nice little trip home, I hear?”

Ixchel tried not to smile. “Yes, well, it seems like you’re having a wonderful gilded vacation too, aren’t you, lover boy?”

He sneered down his nose at her. “Yes, but _I_ do not need to be Inquisitor,” he said triumphantly. “Do enjoy your working holiday.”

Ixchel slipped her arms around him in a tight hug. He pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I will,” she said. “Take the highs where they come.”

Solas did not seem troubled when she took his hand and followed him through the eluvian. Perhaps he and Dorian had had an amicable conversation after all.

“I’m curious—was it a youth potion?” he asked as they walked the edge of the Hall of Uthenera.

“Something like that,” she said quietly. “It…it’s for someone important to her.”

They walked quietly around the perimeter of the Hall of Uthenera.

“I believe some of the key ingredients have gone extinct,” Solas said when they neared their goal.

Ixchel stopped walking. She looked up at Solas disbelievingly. “If that’s true,” she began, then stopped. It didn’t matter now—and as Vivienne had said…she would never know if it were her failure, the Maker’s will, or Bastien’s determination to die that had led to the outcome she witnessed. “What a tragedy.” She shook her head.

Solas’s thumb brushed comforting circuits across the side of her hand, but he did not press.

They returned through the eluvian and found Cassandra cleaning her armor still. The Seeker looked up in surprise and immediately zeroed in on their joined hands.

Ixchel tightened her grip on Solas and let him lead her to his tent. Try as she might to be stoic, Ixchel couldn’t help the giddy grin that blossomed on her face as she walked by Cassandra. When the flap of the tent fell closed behind Ixchel and Solas glanced down at her, he raised his eyebrows and smirked at the silly expression.

 _“You_ are so light you could float, I think,” he said warmly. He reached for the buckles of her armor and began expertly removing it, piece by piece.

“I saw all my favorite people today,” she replied. She stood still as his hands settled beneath her chin to unclasp her cuirass. _“Hanal’ghilan,_ Morrigan, Cassandra, Dorian… All while the Dread Wolf hovered over my shoulder.”

She tipped forward, onto her toes, to meet his soft lips. His hands went still as he focused on the gentle meeting of their mouths; he let her kiss him sweetly, chastely, but coaxingly, and he responded only as much as she demanded. When she leaned back and looked up at him, he was slow to open his eyes.

He exhaled in a long, heavy breath. “It is strange to know you call me that, that you _know_ what I am, what I’ve done…and then…”

“And then I insist that I love you?”

Solas focused on undoing her armor again. “Yes,” he said. “That.”

“Varric says the working title for his book about me is: ‘This Shit is Weird,’” she said lightly. “Par for the course, I think.” She did not succeed in tickling his humor. He seemed suddenly somber, and a little abashed. “I can stop teasing you with it, Solas,” she said after a moment. “I know you took it as your own, but it _was_ an insult.”

He shrugged, noncommittal. “It is not the name.” He had reached her gauntlets, and he lingered over the Anchor, upturned in her palm. “This is _my_ magic, tearing you apart,” he murmured. “It is my focus orb that marked you for such tragedies, such labor… You are right: my deeds crafted the cruel mechanisms of your world.” He cut off her pedantic reply himself: “At least the ones concerning you. Whatever else, perhaps, might have been an inevitability. I may never know. But this, I am certain of.”

Her gauntlet fell to the ground, and she used her freed hand to cup his cheek in her palm. “There are other forces at work, Solas,” she said gravely. “I am glad it was me, and not, say, Briala, or Samson, or even Cullen—or, frankly, you.” She gave him a wry look, then began unfastening her gambeson while he tackled her other gauntlet. “The answer, in any case, is not time magic.”

His lips quirked in a bleak non-smile, but she did not press.

“Morrigan is one of your favorite people?” he wondered eventually.

Ixchel bit her lip and nodded. “She is _very_ sharp,” she warned. “In all the ways that word could be intended… For that matter, she is, perhaps, the only person I worry might put together who and what you are on her own.”

His eyebrows shot up—then dove down. “Truly?”

Ixchel nodded again. “Very sharp. I love her. And Mahariel.”

“You speak as though you have been good friends,” Solas observed.

“I grew up on their stories. It all seemed very romantic,” Ixchel said.

It was mostly true. The Fifth Blight had only lasted little more than a year, and she had been a very young—and nameless—orphan at the time. She had joined the flood of refugees leaving Ferelden for safer harbors, only to return shortly afterward to a country _stamped_ with Mahariel’s name.

She had been hiding out in some ruins to the south when she discovered what would become her name…and Mahariel had discovered her. She had been in such awe of him, treasured the name he had helped her translate from inscrutable runes into beautiful sounds. When she met Morrigan and learned that the whip-smart, beautiful, powerful witch was _also_ Mahariel’s lover… Well, she and Morrigan had become friends if only because Ixchel wouldn’t give the witch a moment’s respite.

There was an ache in her, where her friendship with the little family of misfits had once taken root. Fortunately, it seemed that Mahariel was right: Ixchel had piqued Morrigan’s interest, proved her loyalty, and now the witch would be steadfastly invested in her—for better or worse. More than ever, Ixchel felt that she were in a position to nurture their friendship again.

Only a few months ago, she had hardly dared hope for such a thing.

“I would like to be good friends,” Ixchel said.

“I must trust your judgement.” Solas stepped away to begin removing his own armor now, and Ixchel went to make up their bed. Her heart was in her throat as she did, for it was thrilling exactly how _nonchalant_ and _inconsequential_ she felt, going to bed with him. Hardly anything had changed—and yet, everything had changed.

When it was ready, she began removing the Ardent Blossom from her hair once again. It had become a meditative process, one that drew her to the edge of the Fade in preparation for a night of dreaming. She arranged the beautiful sunset-shaded blossoms carefully atop her armor, then began running her fingers through her crusty hair. She _truly_ could not wait for another long, hot bath.

The thought only made the chill night more invasive. She thought to keep her gambeson on for warmth, though she worried that it stank of the road and battle. But when Solas joined her on the bedroll, he pushed it off of her shoulders and shucked it off to the side. Her ears burned, and her heart raced as his bare hands found her bare arms. He guided her to her rightful place in his arms, where she curled in to his warm embrace.

Solas wove their legs together, rolled a little more on to his side so he could look into her eyes as he stroked his hand down her shoulder. Where his fingers touched, warmth followed—of both the magic and mundane sort—and he watched her face avidly for the response.

Mostly, she was embarrassed by the attention. She tucked her head down to press her nose into his chest and inhaled deeply. He, too, smelled like dirt and livestock and battle. And magic, of course.

His soft laugh rumbled against her cheek. “Why do you hide?” he asked softly.

“My nose is cold,” she lied.

He snorted loudly, and the sound was so unfamiliar that she looked up. He surprised her again by darting down to press a kiss to her nose. _“Ma harel, da’len,”_ he teased. _“Ar lath ma.”_

“For, or despite?”

His laughter this time was contained to his eyes. He pulled her tighter and buried his face in her hair. “All-encompassing,” he replied. “Beyond words.”

“As shocking as my love for you may be, Fen’Harel,” she said, suddenly utterly serious, “I never thought I’d see the day where you’d let yourself love me.”

A pensive silence came between them, then. One of his hands bunched in her hair, firm against her shoulder blades. She could almost _hear_ his guilty thoughts making their circuit through his brain as he contemplated her words and the weight of them.

He shifted a little, at last, so that he could meet her gaze. “What is that tale? About the hounds?”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes at him. “Do _not_ chew off your tail to escape me, Solas.”

“No, that does sound quite unpleasant,” he agreed. He kissed her forehead. “But the lesson still stands…there is no safe haven from the hound of the Dales once she’s caught a scent.”

“Aroo,” she whispered, and he laughed at he again nearly so loud she feared they would be heard outside the tent. He kissed her forehead again, more firmly, and she snuggled deeper into his embrace.

As she fell asleep, she tried very hard not to think of the Dread Wolf whose trail she _had_ lost, a lifetime ago.

-:-:-:-:-

The trees were strange, perhaps from the north, and though they were lush and full they also had shed such volumes that there was a carpet of gold beneath her bare feet. She turned in a slow circle to admire this strange, beautiful forest, and of course she caught a glimpse of the watchful wolf statue through the trees; it seemed he was ever-present even in the days of Arlathan.

She felt a touch on her ankle, and she looked down to find Solas lying in the golden leaves. His pale eyes glittered up at her, and the faintest of smiles played on his lips.

She lowered herself slowly to her knees and reached out to cup his cheek in her hand. “Where are we, Solas?”

“Elsewhere,” he said quietly. “Rest with me.”

She took up her spot under his arm, her head cushioned on his chest. Beneath her ear, his heart played its steady beat, and through the shifting canopy above them, she could see the burning light of stars scattered across an almost-black sky. She rested a hand on his chest, near his throat, and allowed her fingers to shyly investigate the soft sliver of skin revealed by his notched collar.

Solas wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and they lay like that, breathing together, for a very long time. It was curious to her that they would be silent, but she did not dislike it. Nor did she resent it. Rather, she focused on what he was trying to tell her without words. With his touch, his secure arm around her, the unhurried and patient pace of the dream around them: they were safe, and together, and that was the sum total of his desires.

As she lost herself to the warmth and sensations and sounds of their resting place, Ixchel’s awareness slowly expanded beyond herself. At first, she wasn’t aware of it happening; then, she began to recognize the curious slip-fall that she sometimes had experienced when falling asleep. It was not a sudden feeling. Instead, it was slow enough to almost observe. And as she took stock of herself, monitored the progress of this expansion of her awareness, she imagined that this was exactly what it felt like to sleep with Cole—but she was the active party, expanding as she was, rather than her partner. Cole seeped out of himself, filled the space with _Cole,_ as she did now with her awareness.

And in this place, in this moment as she realized that she was _aware,_ she realized something else, too: that Solas was everywhere. It was his power, his touch, his dream. He wasn’t _just_ the semi-physical dream form below her. He was beyond her comprehension, and only now did she _understand._

The slow fall suddenly became a swift plunge, and she jerked in his arms. He seemed to have anticipated it, for his grip on her tightened almost before she had startled, and he sighed.

“I wondered if it were possible,” he said. “Well done, _vhenan.”_

She tried not to cringe at the endearment, tinged as it was with her bitter anger at a Solas who no longer existed.

“Is that what it’s like, to be as you are, Solas?”

He made a breathless sound of assent. “It is a necessary state of mind to have, when seeking paths to the deepest Fade. ‘A mind smooth as mirror glass, still as stone,’” he murmured. “And in the waking world it enables the most facile connection to the Fade.” He shifted beneath her a little, then brought a hand up to caress her cheek. He brushed her thick hair behind her ear and traced the shell of it, then brought his delicate fingers back down to tip her jaw up so he could look into her eyes. “You have magic in you that is not of the Anchor.” Ixchel’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “Perhaps with practice, it might blossom into waking talent.”

She rolled more onto her stomach, excited. “That means—” Her voice swelled and broke with the strength of her fervor, but of course, she knew that he knew the full implications probably better than she ever could. She bit her lip and buried her face in his chest again.

“You should practice in the Fade, to develop the habits you will need,” he said. “But there will be time for practice. It need not be now.” Solas’s hand settled atop her head, and he began carding his fingers through her hair meditatively. “You have found such strange and esoteric treasures,” he murmured. “A flowering image… Geldauran’s claims… Your awareness of the world, your openness, have made you a creature of indomitable focus and rare wisdom…”

It warmed her to the core to hear him wonder at her knowledge, but it hurt, a little, that she still could not share it all with him. Still, so few knew her secret and the true depth of her pain. With Solas, _her_ Solas, _this_ Solas, she imagined that perhaps she might one day forget. But for now, her past life weighed on her heart like a ball and chain.

If she examined them, the weights felt like _futile,_ and _vhenan,_ and _live well._

As light as he made her feel, it threatened to pull her down into something darker, should the wind beneath her falter.

“Solas?” she whispered. “Would you call me something else? Not ‘ _vhenan_.’”

His hand paused in its circuit down the back of her neck and spine. Then, he gripped her more firmly by the arm and waist and moved her closer until he had successfully pulled her fully on top of him. Her face was red, she knew it, and she crossed her arms over his chest so she could bury her face in them. It was a strange but not unwelcome reminder that she was small, and young, and _his;_ she was self-conscious, but…secure.

Now that he had moved her, he took one hand and coaxed her chin back up so he could look her in the eye. _“Ma nuvenas,_ Ixchel,” he promised. “Which tongue would you prefer?”

Her face continued to burn. “Any. It’s just that one name,” she rasped.

A shadow passed over his face, but he nodded solemnly, and he did not press.

In that moment, she was so grateful for his consideration it threatened to stop her heart, for it took up so much of the room in her ribs. She stretched herself forward and braced herself with her elbows on either side of his head so she could kiss him. There was a split second before she did, where they were curtained by her hair, that she looked in to his eyes and realized—

He was so unlike the Solas she had known, in the end, that perhaps they might truly be headed into uncharted territories.

The Dread Wolf might still lurk over both of their shoulders. He still could be pulled away from her, or flee on his own. She had spoken truly: loving her, following her, did not change the fact that his duty yet called him in another direction. But this Solas had wavered. He had doubted, feared, and admitted it all to her.

No, _vhenan_ was not his name to say.

That night, in Elsewhere, Solas gazed up at her with his looking-glass eyes and whispered: _“Arasha.”_

-:-:-:-:-

“Is it not deeply uncomfortable for you, Lady Morrigan?” Cassandra asked disbelievingly.

The Seekers physical discomfort had begun the moment they set foot in the Hall of Uthenera; she described it as drab, but the light was painful and the air dried her throat until she was parched. Every step felt like it was through cold honey. Morrigan was amused at first, then curious, but now that the long, circuitous journey through the eluvians had been so delayed by the world’s effect on the Seeker, Morrigan seemed mostly just cross.

“No,” the witch said in a sharp, bored tone. “We are nearly there, Seeker.”

Ixchel helped Cassandra as best she could; keeping hold on the human woman seemed to alleviate at least the magical drag at her limbs, and they were moving slightly faster now.

“At least this would dissuade the use for armies,” Cassandra said in an attempt either to keep her mind off of the frustrating situation, or as genuine conversation. Ixchel shook her head a little; she suspected that anyone who wanted to badly enough could march their forces through an eluvian without too much trouble. Particularly if they had a very direct route.

But if it comforted Cassandra, she would not deny her.

They reached Morrigan’s Crossroads at long last. Solas looked around with a sharp curiosity, and Ixchel shared it; she understood now how strange this section of the labyrinth was, now that she had been through many different sections of the eluvian network. It _was_ a dark, muted place, as she had remembered; the fog that swirled through it was not simply fog, but pure Fade magic as well. The sound of their movements were distorted too, as though even the air itself was broken.

“It’s deteriorating,” Ixchel murmured. “Eventually it will collapse in on itself.”

“Indeed. Who can say how old it is? For now, it stands, and thus retains its value.” Morrigan gestured elegantly, and small pinpricks of light lit up the fog—the few eluvians left. “Even the majority of these portals are unusable. Broken. Isolated. Sealed. Some, perhaps even simply disnechanted after the ages.”

Solas made a soft sound, almost a hum.

“This place isn’t natural,” Cassandra said, looking around with a grimace as Ixchel led her on by the hand. “It almost seems…constructed. If the ancient elves could do this…”

“It seems remarkable that the Magisters of Tevinter could even challenge them, yes,” Morrigan said wryly.

“How did you come across this place, Lady Morrigan?” Solas asked, as though he were making idle conversation and not judging her clumsy attempts at archaeology nor prying for insights into the depths of her resources. Ixchel gave him a look that he ignored.

“My travels have led me to many strange destinations, Messere,” Morrigan said. “Once…they led me here. It offered sanctuary.”

Solas’s eyebrows shot up. “Sanctuary?”

“Not all the mirrors lead back to our world. The ancients were nothing if not…resourceful.” She looked around with a sudden smile, as though for a moment she were looking around at a childhood home. “For a time, I was safe from those who hunted me. But only for a time. One cannot remain…in-between…forever.”

They reached the central node: a square structure with an eluvian standing on each face. Ixchel noted now that they were flanked by Mythal’s bow-necked dragons.

“Here we are.”

Morrigan activated the towering eluvian and led the way through. Ixchel pushed Cassandra next, followed by Cole. Then, she paused.

Solas drew closer, though he did not touch her. “What weighs on your mind?”

“The feeling of…being _almost_ home…homecoming.” She hugged herself. “I treasure it, though I can’t explain why.”

The soft sound of Solas’s smile filled her with even more of that feeling, and she looked up at him with a muted smile. “ _Ar lath ma,_ Solas,” she murmured.

He put his hand on the small of her back. “Welcome home, Ixchel.”

They stepped through the eluvian together, and returned to Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers(?) Speculation on the 12/10/20 DA4 trailer BELOWWWW  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> okso  
> \- The PC will be an "anybody" character working for the Inquisition ("We'll have to find people Solas doesn't know" after all)  
> \- Varric is our contact as either an adviser or companion  
> \- Double Blight: Razikale and and Lucasan are Dirthamen and Falon'Din (twin souls); they are the two figures with the weird hats on either side of Solas's CREEPY mural, and it's gonna be what's throwing the world into chaos  
> \- bottom right figure is Corypheus but damn doesn't it look like Morrigan lol  
> \- Solas's character model isn't the in-game one. because. something's just off and I don't want it to be the character model lol.
> 
> I think Solas's plan is to use a shitton of red lyrium to tear down the veil and use the raw fade to reshape reality into a giant time rift that brings the entire world back to ye olden elfy days. And he might succeed, and we might be thrown into Elvhenan and wouldn't that be fun? And if the Fade comes down, Hawke might come back too.
> 
> sadly i think maybe solas has consumed the red lyrium...if only because the wolf's teeth are red in the mural ;_;
> 
> \- that black city is BLIGHTED AF
> 
> ....poor lavellan that's all i gotta say.  
> I don't know how we'd end up having the Inquisitor make a cameo...if only because it'd be really sad an awkward for a romanced lavellan, if Solas really has taken a face-heel-turn :'(


	83. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Correspondence is taken from in-game text. All relevant, as usual.  
> 12/12/20

Ixchel quickly dismissed her companions, for it was clear they were waiting for her instructions. It seemed that the gardens had been cleared so that their arrival would go unnoticed and unquestioned; it was quiet, and cool, and Ixchel smiled just to be back.

“I’m going to go take a bath,” she proclaimed, and shooed Cassandra off. Morrigan held back, her eyes locked in the direction of the apartments above the garden; following the witch’s gaze, Ixchel found Kieran peering down over the railing. Ixchel waved, and the boy vanished beneath the railing again which signalled Morrigan to go meet him upstairs.

Ixchel and Solas moved toward the great hall together in companionable silence. Solas put his hand on the door ahead of her, but did not open it immediately.

She looked up at the tall mage and smiled shyly. There was a look in his eyes as he watched her that made her skin tingle.

"I might find you later,” she said in as neutral a voice as she could. It was somewhat defeated by the quiver in it.

“Your company is always welcome,” he replied with only the slightest quirk of his lips, before he opened the door.

She was glad that they had arrived so early; there were few people in the great hall to accost her with salutes or greetings as she made her way to her quarters. It was a small blessing, but it meant she wasted no time running upstairs, where she immediately stripped and threw herself into a bath.

She did not luxuriate, however. There was too much to do. Instead, once cleaned, she laid out all of her individual belongings on the floor to assess their worth. There were plenty of things she had picked up while adventuring that she would be happy to pass off to her soldiers via Cullen, or to Dagna for study, or to Bonny Sims. After she had sorted through everything, she went through the packages that had been left on her desk. She clutched one of them to her chest when she realized that her fame had grown such that nobles were sending her _clothes_ again. She’d soon be able to pick up the slick Nevarran leggings, the soft Chasind sweaters…and the empowering Rivaini undergarments that she had once loved so much.

Ixchel dashed off a wish list that she intended to deliver to Josephine, and then she went to her balcony to gaze out upon Skyhold.

It was midsummer, but that meant very little for the fortress. The river valley was always a frozen wasteland, and the castle was always a moderate clime with a stiff breeze. The ancient magicks clearly had left their mark, and she appreciated it usually. Down in the snow-filled valley, she could see that her armies had grown significantly. Flags of blue and gold signaled the addition of Imperial troops, but she could spy other colors catching the early afternoon light, too. Once again, caravans of soldiers and supplies moved along the river path like so many ants milling about, and soldiers walked in-between the watch towers posted along the rim of the valley for the shift change.

Down in the courtyard, soldiers did calisthenics and sparred; she could see mages scurrying with ingredients and tomes to complete their duties, and a squad of Templars were moving out the main gates to the lift that would bring them down to the valley. She wondered what mission they were on.

A sudden glare made Ixchel squint, and she looked down for the source—and found that it was one of the upper windows of the Herald’s Rest. Sera’s room.

Ixchel blinked as the elf in question climbed out of the window onto the roof. Sera yawned, stretched, fluffed her hair, and then stood with her hands on her hips as she looked around the courtyard as well. When her gaze was inevitably directed up at Ixchel’s balcony, her posture changed, and Ixchel could imagine the girl was squinting up at her just as she squinted down.

Ixchel turned before she could get mooned.

-:-:-:-:-

She stopped by Josephine’s office on her way to the War Room to pick up the latest reports and found her Ambassador surrounded by piles upon piles of letters. Some were perfumed.

“Let me guess,” Ixchel said as she approached her desk. “Marriage proposals for Cullen?”

Josephine raised her eyes from the mountains of correspondence. “Surprisingly, only about a third are for the Commander’s hand.” She smirked. “Many offers of military and financial alliances from across Thedas. Both individual noble houses and conglomerates and crowns. The du Paraquettes have successfully been elevated, so the other half are correspondences related to re-establishing my family’s trading empire.”

Ixchel’s eyes widened. “That’s wonderful, Josie! We didn’t have a single attempt on your life, did we?”

Josephine grinned. “Well, Leliana _did_ personally kill one infiltrator, but no, they did not get a chance to make such an attempt. We have been told now that the contract has been removed. I likely could not have done this without you, Inquisitor. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Ixchel said warmly. “Anything, any time.”

Josephine shuffled through her documents and lifted one for Ixchel to take. “This came with the post just an hour ago. It is from Wycome.”

Ixchel’s heart raced as she took the scroll case and went to the war room. She resolved to leave it for last. If it turned out something had gone terribly wrong…Ixchel didn’t know if she would be able to cope. She had warned Clan Lavellan to be wary, and she could only hope that that had been enough.

So she worked her way through the rest of her reports:

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_Here's the thing: I don't even own a mask. Thus, when the Orlesian empress invites me to engage in "real peace talks," I get nervous. I don't know what Orlesians mean when they say that, but I hear it involves poison and dancing. Perhaps both at the same time. I'm told you know Empress Celene and she owes you for that whole 'saved your life' business. Considering you also helped save mine, perhaps the Inquisition could help make these talks happen?_

_King Alistair Theirin_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Rogasha’ghi’lan,_

_Regarding the adventurers you found in the Emprise: They were searching for the Sulevin Blade, said to be one of the finest weapons ever crafted. The tale of its loss is rarely shared, but we're all impacted by Corypheus's madness._

_During the Exalted March on the Dales, a band of elves used the sword to spill innocent blood. They hoped to power magic to use against their enemies. Instead, they were punished for their savagery. Spirits reached beyond the Veil and struck them down. As for the blade, to this day it lies broken on the cursed land. None may touch it without meeting the same fate as those elves._

_After careful research, Charter and I took a group of our Dalish agents to the suspected Cradle of Sulevin. It was a massive, cathedral-like structure throughout which fragments of the blade had been scattered with many warnings and notes of regret from the only survivor of the blood magic-gone-wrong. With Solas’s notes on veil fire, we were able to identify the spirits guarding the fragments and pacified them. Several were Pride demons inhabiting ancient armor, but we are nothing if not wily._

_I have returned all the fragments to the Inquisition arcanist. She cannot reforge the broken blade, but she is studying it to make an identical weapon, hopefully with the same magical properties._

_I would impress upon you that this artifact is inextricably tied to the tragedy of the Dales, and both its wielder, and its use, should be carefully considered in light of recent events at Halamshiral._

_As always, I am available for consultation or for liaison with the Clans._

_Neria, First to Keeper Elindra of Clan Ralaferin._

_-:-:-:-:-_

_We have received word that "Movran the Under" has made good on your judgment of armed exile in Tevinter. He and his clan immediately staked a claim to a large section of land along the Imperial Highway, at the edge of the Silent Plains. It is inhospitable and vacant, and they claim they are not interested in banditry or actively threatening anyone. Beyond, of course, suddenly declaring that they now live within Imperium borders. Our Tevinter contacts say the relocation has caused significant concern among the Magisters._

_It is good to keep Tevinter on their toes, with their attentions stretched in many directions. We have thus far kept Movran's clan supplied without explicit ties to the Inquisition, and we now hear reports that they have established an extensive settlement and become a welcome stop at the edge of the Silent Plains. There is no reported theft, as they have no need, but there is legendary brawling, as they cannot stop. Tevinter is concerned, but for now they seem to be tolerating Movran's presence. Or at least are able to ignore it._

_Leliana_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_I recently became aware of a talented and inventive young blacksmith from the Anderfels. Once we were introduced through my extensive connections, I negotiated a deal to obtain his weapon plans for the Inquisition. Unfortunately, I have just now been outbid by a nobleman from Vol Dorma who maintains a private army. I believe it is imperative we obtain these designs, considering the great threats we face in the west. Is there anything we can do?_

_Ser Morris, Quartermaster_

_-_

_Inquisitor:_

_I have had this nobleman…persuaded._

_L_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Sightings in the north of Red Templars with armor and weapons adorned with dwarven runes. There are no known entrances to the Deep Roads in that area, and no missives from Orzammar about missing traders, but they keep next-to-nonexistent records of surface dwarves. The Venatori may be making use of dwarven slaves, possibly from Tevinter. Not their usual preference, but also not the first unusual thing they have done._

_In light of our pursuit of Samson northward, we sent a force to intercept._

_This is the report we received. It is nonsensical, given accepted historical record._

_Cullen_

_-_

_Located Venatori enclave. Fires on approach; assumed they torched their camp while retreating. Not the case. Camp already destroyed, Venatori dead. Dwarven tools found, but no dwarves, alive or dead. One deepstalker corpse found, signs of blight corruption. Best guess, Venatori surprised by forces emerging from the camp well. Assume they left the same way. Well collapsed, no passage possible. Enclave scoured for resources for return to Skyhold._

_On return to Inquisition camp, message found next to a newly opened sinkhole:_

_'We always come for our own. What about you, Inquisition?'_

_Binthus Warhelm Kal-Sharok_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor:_

_Our spies searching the northwestern borders for Red Templar activity were delivered this letter by unknown individuals in the night._

_L_

_-_

_A hole in the surfacer's precious sky, not our concern. But the thing that did it? If this magister shit really brought the blight and the darkspawn, we're no friend of that. Follow these instructions, and you'll catch your enemy sleeping. Tell your soldiers not to leave the main tunnel. That's your only warning._

_Binthus Warhelm Kal-Sharok_

_-_

_Leliana,_

_Do as they say. No more, no less._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_My Lady Inquisitor,_

_As you know, the remaining clerics have sequestered themselves with the Grand Cathedral in hopes of electing our new Divine. One would hope this could be done peacefully, but my sisters inform me that there have already been two mysterious death—the product of an assassin loose within the Grand Cathedral's halls. The Chantry has failed to find this killer, so I turn to you for aid: please help my sisters complete their thankless task in peace. The Inquisition is the only force in Orlais with the power to deal with this, and both myself and my sisters would be grateful._

_Yours in faith,_

_Revered Mother Giselle_

_-_

_Leliana,_

_Send your agents before more damage is done. I’m sure the Grand Clerics will be grateful. And if these “sequestered” Grand Clerics somehow happen to hear the news out of the Winter Palace that the Inquisitor herself supports Cassandra for the Sunburst Throne, all the better._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_In light of the events of Halamshiral, many of the nobility of the Orlesian capital have settled their secondary differences and are rallying behind two families, to rival our and the Empress’s agendas._

_The desRosiers are old money, well respected but viewed as traditional and stubborn. The Thibaults rose with a popular merchant consortium and are considered new money and progressive. While the intent of both families was to rival us politically, if we declare for one of them, we may manipulate events in our favor. Lord Pierren desRosier has not asked for our allegiance, but may respect our rising might. Lady Velise Thibault speaks for her investors and is interested in forward-thinking alliances._

_I can draw a number of agreements that tie us to little beyond ceremony. That will gain the initial interest of the Thibaults; I suspect that their true feelings regarding the Inquisition are far cooler than their rhetoric might imply. It would be good to have their favor._

_Josephine_

_-_

_Lady Montilyet,_

_As ever, I defer to your lead in this Game. Remember to keep us honest and earnest._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_If you believe it would be helpful, I would be pleased to take the Bull's Chargers into Orlais to meet with mercenaries currently serving Orlesian nobles who wish to rebel after the events of Halamshiral. A well-placed word from one professional to another could pull the teeth from the enemy and bolster the Inquisition's ranks._

_Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi_

_-_

_While the Chargers lean on the mercenaries, I can lean on the nobles. Between us, we can subvert any possible rebels._

_Josephine_

_-_

_Josie:_

_Do it. Once Krem is done, have him and whatever mercenaries he believes would join us head for the Western Approach. We’ll need them._

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Inquisitor,_

_Forgive me not addressing this in person, but I'm sure you will understand soon enough. I am, of course, not who I claim to be. I say 'of course' because from the company you keep, it seems quite the fashion on the day. That said, my name serves the role I have taken and is of little worth outside of it. I masquerade so I can serve. Be certain of that._

_Now that I have reminded you of how ever so clever your servants are, I must say that I was quite foolish to think I could participate in so direct a manner while still maintaining secrecy. In short, I am under threat, and as a loyal servant of the Inquisition, I should hope you could make said threat disappear. Presumptuous, perhaps, but I only ask so I can remain focused on your needs, not this foolishness of mine._

_Bonny Sims_

A ransom note followed, with a time and location for a drop-off:

_We both know your type. Appearances matter, and all that. So pay up, and no one will know. You can keep playing whatever game you are planning for that Inquisitor._

_-:-:-:-:-_

_Josephine?_

_What the fuck?_

_I like “Bonny” so let’s get her back, shall we?_

_Ixchel_

_-:-:-:-:-_

Ixchel spent most of her afternoon tackling the alliances that Josephine brought to her, the trade agreements, and the matter of supply routes leading out to the Western Approach in anticipation of their troop movements. Cullen had already sent the bulk of their forces ahead with several of his lieutenants, and Josephine was doing her best to ensure they had safe and well-stocked stops along the way.

When she had finished most of the mountain of paperwork ahead of her, Ixchel asked Josephine to gather the rest of the advisers, and Cassandra, for supper in the war room that evening so that they could coordinate their next steps as a group. Then, she picked up the scroll case from Clan Lavellan and went to the rotunda.

She found Solas standing over his desk, hands splayed on the tabletop as she pored over an array of research notes. Behind him, he had already sketched out with charcoal the next panel of his fresco: shafts of darkness cut a sharp angle out of Corypheus’s cloak and cast contrasting shadows across Orlesian-style windows. A triangular figure that Ixchel took to be Celene stood tall in the largest one.

He did not look up immediately when she entered, but he did not startle when she put her hand on his elbow. “Solas,” she said softly, “would you sit with me?”

Solas gave her a curious look—well, it was a mostly inscrutable look, but she took the slight tightness at the corners of his eyes and the subtle pinch of his brow to be curiosity or concern. She went to sit on the chaise, somewhat hidden now by his scaffolding. He sat beside her and let his hands rest on his thighs as he watched her.

“I expected this, but it seems like there will be more reprisals against elves across Thedas after what happened in Halamshiral,” she said, turning the scroll tube over in her hands. “Did I tell you the Duke of Wycome was at the ball? He was acting very strangely… So I wrote to Clan Lavellan, because they’re usually out there, this time of year…and they’re _mine_.”

Solas placed his hand on her knee. “It is not _just_ because they are tied to you. It would be enough that they are Dalish.”

She nodded. He was right, and that was likely true last time, as well, but it did nothing to settle the acid burning in her throat. She sucked in a shaking breath. “It’s moments like these I wish I could get strength from a god,” she said under her breath. “Fuck.”

“Whatever news is in the letter, you do not need strength to read it. You have the strength and wisdom to act upon it. And to do that, you must read it, regardless of what it makes you feel.”

Ixchel looked up at him, but the moment she raised her eyes to his she felt them begin to burn. She tried to blink away the preemptive tears, but she could already tell her lip was going to start trembling soon. At the sight of how deeply she was affected by the _thought_ of her clan’s demise, his mask broke immediately, and his gentle warmth became transparent on his face. He knew she needed to see it.

And it helped. If she had been with Josephine or Leliana or Cullen—as she had, when she had first learned of Clan Lavellan’s utter annihilation—she would have needed to be the Inquisitor. She would have swallowed her tears and screamed them into her mattress in private. She would have finished her meetings and written more letters and faced the potential apocalypse that the Inquisition had been founded to defeat.

But she had brought this to Solas. She would not pretend for him.

She leaned into his shoulder as she opened the tube, pulled out the scroll, and began to read.

_Da’len,_

_I wish I could spend this letter lauding you for your performance at Halamshiral. The ancestors surely walk with you, to command such attention and shake the foundations of the human society as you have. Across Thedas, the Dalish have turned their ears to hear your cry for unity. Lavellan would be first among them—if we survive._

_For it is as you suspected. Bandits began attacking our clan almost the day after we heard of the news from Halamshiral. The raiders were well-armed and heavily armored, and they came in numbers our hunters cannot match. We sought out the operative you sent, Jester, and with Inquisition help we were able to withdraw from our valley to a more defensible area. Jester says that the bandits were mercenaries paid for by the Duke himself. I do not know why. The Duke has not even yet returned from Halamshiral._

_Jester has gone into Wycome to investigate and left me to write this report seeking advice._

_We are safe for now, but I fear for the alienage in Wycome. It may be that the Duke seeks retribution for the events in Halamshiral, and if he cannot attack the ‘savage’ Dalish, he may turn his swords on the city elves._

_I know you have enough on your shoulders, fighting ancient Tevinter Magisters while representing the People and uniting what seems like the whole world against a world-ending threat. But if you can provide any more assistance, you might save our clan much hardship._

_Dareth shiral,_

_Deshanna_

Ixchel swallowed the knot in her throat. She took a breath, and then she turned her face into Solas’s shoulder.

It was not yet the end.

It was so much better than she had expected.

He was quiet, waiting for her to process what she needed to. He was warm, and he was solid, this spirit-man-god-mage. Ixchel inhaled, surrounded by his warmth, his smell; his clothes were fresh and smelled like the spices the Dalish used to insects out of their stores, but _he_ smelled like prophet’s laurel—almost like incense. It reminded her of the first time he had ever held her: after Adamant, after she had fled and reached Skyhold on her own, he had found her in the little Chantry and they had spoken of victories and martyrdom…and she remembered the smell of the incense, and the blood, and the wind…

She took a ragged breath. “I was so _afraid.”_

Solas wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Rightfully so. The pain of what you imagined is the pain of what may yet come. But that will always be true.”

Ixchel kept her eyes closed against his shoulder. He could not know how deeply she understood him in that moment. “Yes,” she said quietly. “What a balance. The foresight to anticipate, but the…the _wisdom_ to maintain perspective, to remain in the present.”

Solas let out a breath. “You have the foresight, and the perspective, and the power, Ixchel. What will you do with it?”

“Send more support for Jester via Leliana’s network." She tapped the scroll tube against her knee. "Send a few more soldiers to guard the clan. If I can find out if this is motivated by pure bigotry, or if there’s something else he’s trying to deflect attention from, then I can act.”

“In either case, you will be setting a precedent for the world to see,” Solas noted quietly.

Ixchel sighed. “I swore I would be an elf standing for all Thedas,” she said. “And all Thedas’s elves. They just need to stay alive long enough for me to do so.” She ran a hand across her face. “I should set that in motion.”

Solas took her hand in his own, and he squeezed it tightly as she raised her eyes to his again; they roved her face, cataloguing it, and his jaw set. “Do what you can. Do what you must. Whatever happens, you are a worthy Champion, Ixchel.”


	84. War Council

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> well, i like logistics, what can I say?
> 
> 12/13/20

Ixchel immediately went upstairs to Leliana.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” her Spymaster said. “What serendipitous timing you have! I just reviewed the latest findings from Calpernia’s memory crystal.”

Ixchel hardly paused. She handed the letter from her clan over to the Spymaster and sat heavily at Leliana’s desk while she read it.

When she was done, Leliana looked down at Ixchel with a look that, Ixchel felt, was sufficiently concerned. The Inquisitor sat with her chin tucked and her arms crossed—she still felt that she had to brace herself for this. “There is no time for diplomacy, Leliana. As soon as you hear from Jester, you tell me. Work with Cullen to put plainclothes troops in the area in case Jester or the clan need backup.”

“It will be done, Inquisitor. Would I have your permission to take out the Duke if it becomes clear it is his goal to exterminate the elves?”

Ixchel chewed the inside of her cheek as she considered it. “All the nobles in the Free Marches will turn on them,” she said with a shake of her head. “If we find out he’s just a bigoted piece of shit, we need to move the elves elsewhere and then make the name of the Duke one that will be reviled the world over.”

Leliana nodded. “We will protect your clan and the alienage. You have my word.”

“Thank you.” Ixchel swallowed. “Sorry. You mentioned Calpernia?”

Leliana reached for an apparatus that held a fragment of the memory crystal. She reached within it and sent it spinning in its holster. As it spun, the crystal began to glow, and voices poured out. Ixchel heard the cool voice of a young woman she recalled as Calpernia:

_“—not possible. This says the empire of the ancient elves was already in ruins when the Imperium was established… Their gods abandoned them.”_

_There was a shuffle of notes. “The High Priest of Dirthamen wanted to use blood magic to bind his followers to their temple. Instead, the other priests bound_ him… _Is that the demon you found?”_

There was a murmur of assent.

_“An ancient high priest of the god of secrets, bound like a demon…? What does that mean…? And we have discovered no other secrets?”_

_“No, Mistress.”_

_“No other…temples?”_

A throat cleared. _“We are not the only ones who followed Samson across the sea. We nearly walked right into another Inquisition tracker. I believe we have discovered the location of the Elder One’s Temple of Silence, northeast of our forward camp …but it is likely the Inquisition will beat us there.”_

There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of heeled shoes clicking on a stone floor as Calpernia, presumably, paced. “ _We will keep the information to ourselves. He has done nothing to prepare to become the Vessel… If Samson is stupid enough to be caught unaware, let him fall from the Elder One’s grace!”_

_“As you say, Mistress.”_

_“Keep your eyes on the ground to observe. Perhaps we will learn something from the Inquisition’s efforts. I will be meeting with Erimond to ensure the Binding of the Wardens goes as planned. You know where to find me.”_

_“Yes, Mistress.”_

Footsteps retreated from the crystal, and then it fell silent again.

Ixchel rested her forehead on her fist, propped against the table. “Fantastic,” she said.

Leliana couldn’t hide her smirk. “Indeed. It is quite helpful that my agents know exactly where Calpernia’s spies had been camped, so we can narrow our search for the Temple they speak of. And even without sowing any rumors, the divisions between Corypheus and his generals, and they with each other, have grown!”

“When did you receive this message?” Ixchel asked.

“Yesterday, I believe.”

Ixchel nodded. “Of course, we don’t know where she’s leaving from, but we should get word to Hawke, Varric, and our forward people to keep an eye out for Venatori. Binding rituals sounds like demons. Blood magic, perhaps.”

Leliana steepled her fingers in front of her. “It does. This is deeply concerning for the Wardens.” She closed her eyes. “Why the Wardens?”

“We know that Corypheus can speak to them through their Calling,” Ixchel said. “That’s how he got them out there. But perhaps with his Blight magic, he can control them as well. Or, now that they’re out there, they’re sitting ducks for a blood sacrifice.” She shrugged. “Either way—an urgent danger.”

“Josephine said you would have us all meet for supper. I will have my plans for deployment ready by then.”

“Thank you, Leliana.” Ixchel exhaled heavily and stood to leave, but Leliana put out her hand and touched her by the elbow.

“I know that the strike against the alienage at Halamshiral took us all by surprise,” she said in a grave murmur. “These are dark times, but the light of the Inquisition reaches even the furthest corners of Thedas. It will not happen again.”

Ixchel blinked away a sudden mist of tears in her eyes. “Do our best,” she agreed.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel nodded at Solas as she returned to the rotunda, but she did not tarry. She headed out to the courtyard and paused atop the stairs.

After wavering a moment, she went to the tavern. It felt empty without Bull and the Chargers or Lace. Maryden started playing _Scout Lace Harding_ as soon as Ixchel entered, but it brought only the thinnest smile to the Inquisitor’s face as she passed.

“Hello, Friend,” Ixchel said to Sera.

Sera looked her up and down, obvious. “You’re a lot less shiny than I remember.”

Ixchel tried to keep her breathing even. She wished she could muster the humor to respond to Sera, but the news from Clan Lavellan had drained her of any relief and relaxation she had gained coming home to Skyhold. Before she could even try, Sera had put her hands on her hips and continued.

“Just as elfy, though. Even elfier than I thought.”

Ixchel did not let even an eyelash twitch in response. “I hope I’ve proved to stand for more than just elves, after all that happened,” she said calmly. “I’d be surprised to see you here if you _didn’t_ think I stood for more than just the elves.”

Sera snorted. “What, you don’t think I stand for _eyhlvhes?”_ she drawled in an over-exaggerated mimicry of Ixchel.

“You’re a Jenny. That’s the here-and-now,” Ixchel said with an expressive wave of her hand. “Reclaiming the Dales, holding grudges, that’s all about the past.”

The rogue narrowed her eyes at Ixchel, but after a split-second she nodded. “Right. We were wonderin’ how you knew about the Jennies. No one can place you, Inky, even before you got all glowy. But you aren’t _really_ an elfy-elf, are you? That’s new. You were like me before—hungry an’ angry.”

Ixchel _almost_ laughed. “Yeah, Sera. You understand.”

“Really?” Sera’s eyebrows jumped up, then down again. “I almost believe you, you know. Half of us though you were kissing ass in the palace, getting right up in there. Then that Briala goes and gets herself made Marquise and now all the nobles in Orlais can’t decide if they want to kiss their servants or kick ‘em. ‘Cause of you. Still can’t make heads or tails of that.”

“Yeah, me either.” Ixchel shook her head and went to sit on one of the small cocktail tables that had been shoved into the room for storage. She crossed her ankles. “So what are you here for, Sera?”

Sera thrust her head forward to eye Ixchel more closely, as though she still couldn’t get a read. “What _I_ want is to get everything back to business as usual. A nice simple system with simple problems. Helps me, helps people, helps you. In that order. For now.” She paused, then rolled her eyes. _“And_ someone told me that you got bigger ears than we do, so maybe I can hear more calls for the Jennies from further away.”

Ixchel actually managed a grin at that. No one had ever accused her of having bigger ears than an actual elf before. “Sure,” she said.

“Sure?” Sera repeated. "Just like that?"

“Why not?” Ixchel shrugged and spread her hands out. “The Jennies exist and do their thing, and the assholes of the world learn that hey, maybe we shouldn’t kick the little people. They can bite back. Sounds like the world I want: nobles and people with power thinking twice about how they use it. I’d like to make sure little people don’t always stay little. That the people who are hungry aren’t hungry forever. I don’t think you’d get in the way of that.” Sera nodded shortly, still frowning. “I’ll deal with the giant evil Magister trying to tear the sky apart, you do your thing, I’ll help you when you need it, and when the world isn’t falling apart—you can tell me what the little people need to make sure the world is better for them.”

“Are you _real?”_

Ixchel gaped at Sera. Sera mimicked her dumbstruck expression, then shook her head fiercely. “I heard what happened to you. All this Andraste shit. A Magister who cracked the ‘Black City.’ It’s a hazy dream, right? I mean, if it’s real real, then the seat of the Maker? Real thing. A seat needs a butt, so the Maker? Real thing. So did Andraste give you the glowy hand or what? Is _that_ why you’re all preachy?”

“Andraste did not give me the hand, Sera,” Ixchel said flatly. “The Magisters used blood magic to go into the Fade. That doesn’t mean what they found was actually the seat of the Maker.”

Sera chewed her lip, clearly cross at Ixchel’s quick, unconcerned answer. “Right. It can’t be _true_ true. Even fanatics don’t want to be _this_ right.”

“Right,” Ixchel agreed. “Look, Sera. I’m not faking anything. I really did grow up scrounging for food and freezing in the winter. I really do care about the people who are always getting stepped on by people who what, got born luckier? Or who killed enough people to pretend like they’re luckier? It happens to be that most of the people who get stepped on are elves, and the world thinks, ‘Oh, because they’re always being stepped on, it must be that they were _made_ to get stepped on.’ I can do something about that, so I am. By making people think that maybe they shouldn’t step on other people, period.”

“As if _that’ll_ happen.” Sera snorted.

“And if it doesn’t, the Jennies will always be around,” Ixchel said. “I believe that, too.”

“How pretty _are_ you that I actually thought all that shite was possible? You’re right.” Sera ran a hand through her fringe. “Somehow, Fadey blood-magic-bullshit doesn’t make it better, though.”

“Don’t worry,” Ixchel said with a wry smile. “I’ll try and stop all the Fadey Magister bastards before you have to deal with it.”

“’Preciate it, Your Ladyship.”

“Inky is fine,” Ixchel said. She hopped off the table. “Find me whenever.”

“Whenever-whenever?” Sera asked, a mischievous glint entering her eye.

Ixchel gave her a helpless shrug and left the rogue to interpret it how she would. She would anyway; that, Ixchel knew.

Next Ixchel went to the dungeon. There was only one guard posted, for there was only one prisoner and he was well-behaved.

“Give me a moment,” she told the guard, who nodded and left for the top of the stairs. Ixchel approached Thom’s cell and, somewhat to her surprise, found him at the bars waiting for her. “Thom,” she said.

“Maker, Ixchel,” he said wearily. “When I heard what happened in Halamshiral…”

She leaned against the stone pillar next to his cell and raised an eyebrow at him. “Worried for me, were you?”

“In that viper’s nest?” He sighed. “I’ve had nothing but time to think on what you said to me, in Val Royeaux… I wanted to be there, in Halamshiral. I thought—I could have been in the town, or I could have been watching the Chevaliers. I could have been putting out fires or carrying the injured.”

He pressed his forehead against the bars. “I hated myself so much that for a moment, I thought I hated you…for telling me my sins weren’t special, that I deserved punishment and grace just as much as anyone else.” Thom paused, then raised his eyes to hers. “If…if you still have need of my life, it is yours, Inquisitor. Not reluctantly, either. I will not squander the opportunity to make this world a better place.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, I’ve always said you weren’t stupid,” she said with relief. “The first thing I’d ask of you is to let me judge you publicly. Let it be known that, like the Wardens, the Inquisition is a place where anyone who wants to dedicate themselves to a greater cause is accepted. Would you do me that favor?”

Thom took a shaky breath. “Aye.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Then, I will have you join me storming an ancient Temple of Dumat that Corypheus’s generals have made their fortress. That will be in a day or two, I imagine. Then…we go after the Wardens who’ve gathered in the Western Approach, to save them from a blood magic ritual the Venatori have planned for them.” She held out her hand. “I’m honored and relieved to have you back at my side.”

He stared at her hand for a moment longer. Then, he reached through the bars and clasped it tightly. “It is my honor, Inquisitor. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel sought out Morrigan and Cassandra at dinner time to bring them to the war council with her. A second table was brought in for their meal, and she bade everyone sit while she paced and chewed on a slice of flat bread topped with cheese and mushrooms. “Everyone here, I think, or nearly everyone has met Morrigan. Veteran of the Fifth Blight, companion of the Hero of Ferelden, and a valued scholar historian of the arcane and occult arts.”

Morrigan raised her eyebrows. “’Tis far kinder than ‘Witch of the Wilds,’ isn’t it, Leliana?” she mused.

Leliana hardly batted an eyelash.

“I’ve read through each of your reports,” Ixchel continued, nodding at her advisers, “and I wanted to catch everyone up and give my thoughts all together. Save some time. Let’s start with my own experiences since leaving Halamshiral—at least, where Corypheus and his followers are concerned.

"The Venatori were searching for ancient weapons that may have been hidden by the Elvhen gods, the Evanuris. Though I thought we had intercepted them before they could report their notes to their masters, it seems—thanks to the communication crystal Leliana managed to hide in Magister Calpernia’s belongings—that they have, indeed, found a Temple of Dirthamen, the god of secrets. They have already infiltrated it and found nothing but demons, thankfully.

“Samson, Corypheus’s general and leader of the Red Templars, was in Halamshiral to stoke the violence and sow chaos, and we were able to track him north as he fled across the sea. Leliana has been able to narrow down our search area, and we believe we will find Samson at a Temple of Dumat somewhere to the northeast of the Ghislain estate where the Iron Bull, Vivienne, and Dorian have been posted with an eluvian. It seems that Calpernia and Samson are both vying for Corypheus’s favor, to become the Vessel for something. Calpernia knows that we approach the Temple, but it seems her grudge against Samson is enough that she won’t warn them of our attack.

“But in the meantime, she’s headed out to meet someone named Erimond to oversee ‘the Binding of the Wardens’—something I can only imagine is either blood magic mind control, or their use as sacrifices to power some other kind of blood magic. Hawke, Varric, and Fenris were already warned of something along these lines and have orders to contact us immediately if they see something beginning to unfold. I’m concerned about this because, in the Blighted future I went to, not only did Corypheus assassinate Celene…he had an army of demons. How do you get an army of demons?” She waved a hand. “Blood magic, among other things.”

Ixchel turned to Cullen. “If I said we needed to lay siege in the Western Approach in four day’s time, would we have the people?”

“With the Orlesian military alerted to our needs, yes,” said Cullen, “but half of them may be fatigued. The last stretch would require a full day’s march at our fastest pace.”

“Then let’s hope we have five days. Get them out there,” she said. “Leliana—when we find this Temple of Dumat, are there enough of your skirmishers and cutthroats out there to support us storming it?”

Her spymaster nodded. “They can converge within an hour’s notice,” she said. “They are never far from ready.”

“Good. Josephine—from your and Leliana’s reports, it seems that quite a few nobles are rejecting the new social order in Orlais. I know you’re going to do everything you can to make assurances and compromise with them to retain their support and whatnot, but,” Ixchel picked up another slice of flatbread and used it to point meaningfully at her Ambassador, “let’s double-down on our praise and commitments to those who are embracing it, as well. Let our peaceable and good-hearted allies know that, no matter how small their contribution has been, we value them. We may get even more in return.”

She paused then to chew thoughtfully on a piece of crust. “I’m afraid of how far the red lyrium has spread in the Free Marches, but I’m also afraid of how deeply ingrained Orlesian bigotry may be in the Free Marches,” she said. “There have been attacks on Clan Lavellan that our agents have discovered were paid for by the Duke of Wycome personally. Cullen and Leliana will be working to protect the clan and investigate whether this is pure bigotry or if it’s a distraction—but Josephine, _either way,_ nobles across the Marches will look to what happens next in Wycome and use it as a judgment on the elves and alienages in their own city-states. When we’re thinking of backing people in Orlais, let’s treat the Marches much the same: make the sympathetic ones know that when they speak up against injustice, they will have the Inquisition behind them. Maybe that will encourage someone to intervene in the future, and hopefully it’ll cut off any backlash from whatever’s going on in Wycome.”

Ixchel turned to Morrigan and Cassandra, but she addressed the group. “Let’s say we thwart al of Corypheus’s plans that we know of thus far. We stole the mage rebellion from him. We took the bulk of his Templars. We’re destroying his red lyrium shipments. We protected and we’re going to stabilize Orlais. And we’re going to rob him of the Wardens and the demon army. Let’s always be thinking of what he really wants, and how he might go about it in the future. Because this isn’t over until he’s _dead.”_

“As the Seeker and I discussed with the Inquisitor—based on the Chantry tales and early Tevinter history, the Magister likely wishes to enter the Fade again, bodily,” said Morrigan. “I reflected upon the matter and I do not know whether or not he wishes to enter the Black City again. ‘Tis true, that may be the source of his power—and the source of the Blight. But what _power_ could he wield purely by virtue of being within the Fade in material form?” She swirled her wine glass, took a sip, and then sighed. “Of course, he could want to breach the Black City, be it for more of the same power he received in the first place, or to free something kept within it, or to perform some ritual to return the Blight _to_ it.”

Ixchel frowned at that. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Now _that_ would be a Binding ritual,” Morrigan said with finality.

“How many ways could it be possible to enter the Fade?” Cassandra asked. “He believed he needed that orb _and_ the Anchor. And you say they might be from the ancient elves. Is he really looking for a weapon…or another Anchor?”

Morrigan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Seeker,” she proclaimed, “you may have revealed an important truth just then.”

The witch leaned back under the gaze of all those watching, but she pinned her gaze on Ixchel. “Many—though not _all—eluvians_ meet in an in-between place, a crossroads of sorts, that lies outside both the Material and the Fade. But these worlds _are…near_ the Fade. The one that I have access to is particularly fragile, and any significant use of magical power could tear a hole in its foundation and link it directly to the Fade itself. The Veil is thick here in the Material world, and ‘twould make sense that Corypheus would require such great power as what lies in your hand. But in that place, it would not take much at all.”

Ixchel nodded slowly. “We must protect the eluvians we have, then, and make sure they stay out of the Elder One’s hands,” she said.

“And we should find any others that we cannot account for,” Cassandra added. “It seems that Briala keeps hers under tight observation.”

“There must be many others that have been hidden or forgotten,” Leliana said thoughtfully. “The empire of the ancient elves spanned from horizon to horizon, no?”

“Maker guide us,” Josephine sighed. “Inquisitor, I do not know how we might be able to do such an extensive survey. It would require more teams of archaeologists in more nations than I can imagine being safe—doubtless, the Elder One will have agents infiltrating any effort we make.”

“So we keep the efforts small and secret,” she said. “We will have Morrigan, and we will have the Dalish.” She crossed her arms and looked out at the dark sky visible through the tall windows. “There will be an Arlathvhen soon. There are two issues I want to press to the Keepers: solidarity with the city elves…and finding, and protecting, eluvians from the Elder One. Not every clan will be open to working with ‘flat-ears,’ and the ones who won’t perhaps we can convince to roam, as they always have, undetected…and locate the eluvians that remain.”

“We have very few resources on Dalish etiquette, Inquisitor,” Josephine said apologetically. “We have you, and First Neria, and now we have contacts in Lavellan and Feratherien—but can they spare someone to help us plan our negotiations? Can _we_ as the Inquisition even be _present_ to make negotiations?"

Ixchel bit her lip. “I've never been to one, so I'm not sure. Neria isn’t the best choice, though. I heard she caused a fuss at the last Arlathvhen. It would be Terinelan and Deshanna who I’d recommend—but they need to be alive to help us.”

Josephine nodded. “Then we will make sure our efforts in the Free Marches have priority. And the Western Approach. _And_ Northern Orlais.” Her sigh was almost a groan as she scribbled away on her notepad. “We have managed to be in three places at once. But have we figured out to have three copies of ourselves made? I’d _like_ three copies of myself just about now, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many of you missed sera soooo much haha  
> here ya go!!


	85. The Inheritor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/13/20

Cullen held her back after she had dismissed everyone.

He ran a hand through his hair nervously. “If there’s even a chance Samson is at that Tevinter Temple—I need to be there, Ixchel,” he said, his words nearly tripping over each other to get out. “I may not be a Templar anymore, but…it was still my Order. He’s still corrupted and killed countless of my brothers and sisters in arms.”

“Of course, Cullen,” Ixchel said without hesitation. “Absolutely.”

“—really?”

“Really.” Ixchel nodded and shoved her last piece of flatbread into her mouth. “But you can’t kill him on sight.”

He stared at her for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “You really meant it in Halamshiral, didn’t you?”

“I really do, Cullen,” she said, swallowing. “For more than just redemption, though. Samson’s armor…his sword…they’re powerful in their own right. I don’t know that even with all of us there we can overcome him. And certainly I don’t think you can, on your own.” She crossed her arms and fixed him with a pointed look. “If you come with us, you must swear to me right now that you will not face him alone, and you _will_ flee from him if the danger is too great.”

Cullen’s face drained of blood, and he clenched his jaw. For a moment, Ixchel really wondered whether he would agree to her terms.

Then, he drew his fist to his breast, and he nodded. “I swear it, Inquisitor.”

She let out the breath she had been holding. “It’s a long road ahead of us, Cullen. I need you at my side for it.”

His eyes shone. “Do not doubt.”

“I don’t,” she replied with a smile, and she took her leave.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel was surprised to find Kieran sitting on the steps up to her throne, seemingly waiting for her outside her quarters. The few people still out and about in the hall seemed to give him a wide berth, perhaps unconsciously, and it made his presence a little conspicuous—at least to Ixchel’s sharp eye. He was dressed in a fine pyrophite breastplate, and his father’s griffon emblem rested on his chest. He smiled at Ixchel as she approached.

“Hello, Kieran,” she said carefully. For as much as she liked the boy and his family, she had mostly come to know him after his ‘dreams’ had stopped, thanks to his grandmother. Before that, she remembered he had been a curious mix of too-knowing, and too naïve to know what he knew. She wasn’t going to be surprised if he saw straight into her soul and realized that somehow, she contained the same power that he held in him now.

“Hello, Inquisitor,” he said in his wispy voice. “I thought you’d be scarier.”

“It’s hard to be scary when you’re this short,” she explained as she sat beside him.

“Mother said you scare people, because people fear the next age if it comes too soon,” Kieran said. His face grew very serious and just a little sad. “She says they’d be afraid of me, too, if they knew.”

Ixchel nodded. “You know who else is scary, but not?”

Kieran’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, where Cole had appeared. “Oh! You’re Compassion.”

Cole dipped his head forward and turned his big blue eyes on Kieran. Then he looked at Ixchel. Then he looked back. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “No—do you know?” he asked Ixchel first, then Kieran, with another switch of his gaze.

“Not entirely,” Ixchel admitted.

“Mother says I know lots of things I shouldn’t,” Kieran said with a slight smirk. Then, he grew quite serious. “Your blood is _very_ old. I saw it right away.”

“Yes,” she said. She looked back at Cole. “Are you alright, Cole?”

Cole quivered, then went to sit on Kieran’s other side. “It’s like hearing it twice, but a beat apart,” he said. “And yours is—too many other things, all at once.” He squinted at Ixchel. “But you wanted me to meet him?”

Ixchel nodded. “Kieran has strange dreams. Don’t you, Kieran?”

Kieran blinked at her. “You don’t?”

“Mine are my own,” she clarified. He nodded, because of course, he understood. “I wanted to introduce the two of you, because Cole sometimes keeps me company in my dreams and helps me move between them.”

“You said he’s scary but not. People aren’t afraid of receiving Compassion, they’re afraid of giving it,” Kieran said. He reached for Cole’s hand. “You don’t have to hide from _me!”_

Cole gave him a breathless smile. “Alright. But I can’t tell how you need help, if you do. You’re bright—like her—so you’ll have to tell me since I can’t look.”

“Alright,” Kieran said with a smile. Cole nodded and vanished. Ixchel supposed she and Keiran were too bright, together, after all. Kieran turned his brown eyes back to Ixchel. “They called you the Herald of Andraste. But you’re the herald of the _new age,_ like Mother is the inheritor.”

“That’s what I’ve been told, more or less,” Ixchel said slowly. “You…your mother…your _grandmother…_ see much more than others do. Perhaps you could tell me what you see in me, Kieran?”

“Cracks.” He held up his hands and moved his fingers in slow patterns through the air, from the direction of her face down to her chest. “Compassion said you are too many things all at once. It’s because you’re many parts, making a whole. But you’re _entirely_ your own. Does that make sense?”

“As much as anything ever does, which is not very much.”

Kieran laughed at her, and she smiled with him. “By the way, why _do_ your people choose to look like that?” he asked her.

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “I think it’s because we forgot how to look anything different. Can _you_ look like anything else?”

Kieran shook his head and touched his rounded ears. “Half-elves don’t get to be elves,” he said sadly. “But it would be worse if I couldn’t touch magic at all. Like being blind.”

It wasn’t the first time she had heard that half-elves weren’t elves—in a context that wasn’t about racism, but rather about magic and the strange, ancient nature of the Elvhen. She held her breath for a second longer. Then, she decided to ask it. “Am I half an elf?”

He bit his lip and looked so much like his father as he struggled to find words, she wondered how in the world Morrigan survived it. Or perhaps it was a comfort to the witch, to have a part of Hal with her always in this way. “Not an elf like my father is,” Kieran said at last. “And not half, like me. It’s hard to tell, with…” He put his hand over his chest illustratively, and pointed at her own.

“Kieran! Are you bothering the Inquisitor? It is rude to point at strangers.”

Ixchel and Kieran looked up to see Morrigan striding toward them. She had changed and put on thick furs in preparation for the cold night. Her brow was pinched with concern.

“Of course I’m not bothering her,” Kieran said. “Do you _see_ what’s in her hand, Mother?”

Ixchel snorted. “He’s a proper young man, Morrigan. It’s no trouble. Perhaps I was bothering him.”

“You weren’t,” Kieran assured her. He smiled at his mother. “She introduced me to Compassion. He can keep me company in my dreams.”

Morrigan’s brows dove low over her golden eyes. “Compassion? ‘Tis spoken as a name.”

“We have an unbound Spirit of Compassion in our ranks, named Cole,” Ixchel explained.

“And is that how you know of my boy’s dreams, I wonder?” Morrigan’s frown had not eased. Now, she raised her hand and twisted Mahariel’s ring on her finger. “Kieran, my love, have you had your supper yet? If you want to eat before I send you to bed, you should seek your meal now.”

Kieran’s stomach growled loudly at that moment. He sighed and unfolded his lanky frame. “What if I am hungry for more conversation?” he mused, and he gave Morrigan a brilliant smile when she chuckled despite herself.

Kieran bowed to Ixchel, then made his way in the direction of the kitchens.

Ixchel took a deep breath. “Would you join me for some wine, Morrigan?”

“If you are offering,” Morrigan said. “I _did_ mean what I said to Kieran—I will need to see that he goes to sleep soon.”

“I won’t be offended if you have to leave,” Ixchel said. She stood herself and led the witch up to her quarters. She fetched a new bottle of wine from the gifts on her desk and poured glasses for herself and Morrigan, then went to sit on the small sofa that had been brought up. Morrigan accepted the glass offered to her and took up a spot on the chaise.

“I must confess, my curiosity about you only grows by the day, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said, giving the wine a sniff. “Halevune has at least informed me about how you came across your strange name. ‘Tis a lovely story.”

Ixchel grinned over the top of her wine glass. “And a small world.”

“But Hal did not tell _you_ the secret to his survival,” Morrigan said.

“No, he didn’t.” Ixchel stopped smiling. “And I did not learn Elvhen from the Dalish. Morrigan, you are a woman who can appreciate secrets. And magic. And history.”

“I would like to think that I am, yes.” The witch swirled her wine, still frowning. “Might I offer my guess, before you illuminate the matter?”

Ixchel shrugged and gestured for Morrigan to continue.

“You have met my mother.”

Ixchel stared at her in consideration. “How do I answer that. Hah.” She took another sip. “Yes.”

“But you are not one of my…sisters.”

Ixchel nearly dropped her wine at that. She adjusted her grip and took a sip to occupy herself amid her surprise. “How would I know?”

“You would know, I think,” Morrigan said somewhat hesitantly. “Though I have never met another, we are all witches, and we are all masters of form. Shape shifters. And my mother has meddled in all of our lives.”

Ixchel was slightly disappointed, though honestly, quite relieved. “Is it your guess that your mother told me things?”

Morrigan nodded.

“No.” Ixchel set down her glass and pulled her legs up onto the couch so she could hug her knees. She looked across at Morrigan with fear in her heart. She knew this woman so well—and she knew how impulsive she could sometimes be. And while she trusted that Morrigan would not tell another soul, Ixchel _didn’t_ know what Morrigan _would_ do once she learned. “I have done this all before, Morrigan. I died, and I was returned here through some ritual I don’t fully understand. But I have known you. Traveled with you.”

Morrigan took a pensive sip of wine and did not speak. She did not break eye contact with Ixchel and studied her intently. “I don’t disbelieve you,” she said at last.

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “But will you trust me, I wonder?”

Morrigan set down her glass and leaned forward. “You are a good woman, Inquisitor. I have witnessed all the ways magic can be used to defy death. Multiple independent parties have experienced time magic. It does not surprise me that it could be combined in some way. And…I trust your intentions.” She narrowed her eyes a little. “But you would not tell me, I think, _simply_ to regain my friendship.”

Ixchel rested her chin on her knees and stared right back at Morrigan. “I would,” she disagreed. “It…hurts to have you worry that I might have bad intentions toward Kieran. I want you to trust me.”

Morrigan’s brow cleared, and her concern was replaced with surprise. She leaned back into the chaise and tipped sideways. “Hmm,” she said, putting her arm up and resting her head on her hand.

“There is something else, but it’s—again, it’s not why I told you this.” Ixchel chewed her lip for a moment longer. “Your mother holds a fragment of the ancient Elvhen mage-queen who was exalted as the god of justice.”

“ _Mythal_?” Morrigan said, nearly spitting it. “What?”

Ixchel stared at her helplessly. She was almost afraid of speaking the All-Mother’s name, for fear of catching her attention. Something in her face quelled Morrigan’s shock. “You say fragment. She is _not_ herself Mythal, who was but a mage?”

“I don’t truly understand it,” Ixchel admitted. “Magic from Elvhenan is _so_ far beyond us, Morrigan… They could create pocket worlds—can’t you imagine how unbelievably powerful someone had to have been, to be revered as a god? You know the stories of your mother, how she cried for vengeance and a spirit came to her. It was _her._ Because she seeks vengeance against the other gods…who murdered her and brought ruin on the world.”

“Are they out there as well, in similar forms?” Morrigan demanded. “Did they succeed—bringing about ruin upon the world, that you then fled from?”

Ixchel swallowed. “It’s complicated. As far as I know…they have been locked away. It’s what caused the fall of Elvhenan. But I don’t know what happened to… I killed myself.” She closed her eyes. “I did not see the end.”

Morrigan was silent for a very long time. At last, her furs shifted. “I am sorry, Ixchel,” she said softly. “You have spoken of many impossible things. Yet I see how that might, in the face of such impossibilities, have been an answer.”

“It was an answer,” Ixchel agreed hollowly. “It was not a good one.”

“Who can say?” Morrigan urged. "Be kind. In that moment, it seemed the best."

Ixchel shook herself. She nearly found herself recoiling at Morrigan's kindness, and she did not want to sit and examine why it repulsed her so much. But Ixchel had plenty of other things to discuss.

"Well…now you know. I should tell you the rest… There is an ancient Elvhen magic that Corypheus seeks. It is called the Well of Sorrows, and it grants you immense power—but puts you under the geas of the All-Mother. Of _your_ mother. You drank from it before we knew that truth, in order to preserve it from Corypheus… And I can’t tell you what came of it, except that you and I found out together that _she_ could make you do anything at all she wanted, with just a thought. Like give her Kieran.”

Morrigan leaped to her feet. Then, she immediately sank to the ground. “Is it worth reminding myself that I perhaps don’t know everything after all?” she asked bitterly. “I will fully admit to my impulsiveness when it comes to preserving what once was...but I would not give up my _son..._ Thank you, Ixchel. That…is a kindness I perhaps do not deserve.”

“You do,” Ixchel said. She raised her head and found Morrigan with her head in her hands. “You are a good mother. A dear friend. A loyal partner. And Kieran deserves for you to be free.”

Morrigan’s messy bun quivered.

“We still must keep the Well out of Corypheus’s hands,” Ixchel said at last. “Even under your mother’s control, I don’t know if she _would_ stop him. And the Well grants immense power—enough to redirect eluvians straight into the Fade.”

“You know where it is?” Morrigan peered at her with one eye through her fringe. “You do not want to draw attention to it prematurely. Ah.”

“For now, it is well-protected.” Ixchel described the ancient elves who guarded it, slipping in and out of uthenera to watch over the ancient temple. She spoke of what happened once Morrigan had drank from the well—the whispers, the dragon, the Archdemon. “I don’t know whether it would be better to let Abelas destroy it, or to defeat Corypheus before he can ever hope to reach it, or…”

“Yet you say it was necessary for me to learn the dragon’s form, to defeat the Archdemon so Corypheus could not move bodies.” Morrigan leaned back against the leg of the chaise. “What will you do against such a beast?”

“I don’t—”

Ixchel stopped. It hit her, then and there, what she had to do.

She rose to her feet and put both hands to her hair. “We have to kill it at Adamant. I know it will be there. Morrigan—the Wardens—” The rest of the story rushed out then: the blood magic, the annihilation of the Wardens, the fall into the Fade. “It is not a true Archdemon, as you say. I can kill it. _I can kill it.”_ She covered her face and dug her fingers into her scars. “I have to.”

“But its breath is…red lyrium?” Morrigan queried. “Or even the Blight _itself_?”

Ixchel had hardly heard her. “I’ll need all of our Templars there, to neutralize the Venatori. If that Magister can’t influence the Wardens, and their mages can add to ours, to help with barriers, too. But if I can focus on the red lyrium dragon, then—then anyone could defeat Corypheus.”

“And the _massive rift to the Nightmare,_ my lady?” Morrigan reminded her, standing as well. “And the _Breach?_ Not just anyone can close those.”

“Honestly, I can do this.” Ixchel clapped a hand to her chest and found her heart racing. “No red lyrium dragon. No Vessel. No Well. But then I can’t predict what he’d try next. Probably the eluvians, like you said.”

“I already know how you will react to this suggestion, but what if you allow _some_ things to happen?” Morrigan said in exasperation. “For that very reason?”

Ixchel shook her head, and Morrigan sighed.

“If I were a younger woman, I might shame you for such foolish resolve,” she chided. “I still might.”

Ixchel surprised herself by reaching for the woman’s hand. Morrigan nearly jerked it away, but relented quickly. “Whatever happens, you’re staying _you,”_ Ixchel promised. “And Kieran will be safe. But I will spare the same consideration for _all_ the people I can help, too. I must at least try.”

Morrigan’s face gentled. “And that is why I am not berating you. My life would be far different—far emptier—had it not been for the foolish and the honorable.” She curled her fingers around Ixchel’s hand, and she lay her other hand upon Ixchel’s shoulder. “If we truly traveled together as long as you say… How old were you, then, Ixchel?”

Ixchel stared up at the witch in silence. Morrigan’s eyes were too knowing, too familiar.

Her silence seemed answer enough.

“’Tis a heavy burden,” Morrigan said softly. “I hope that I helped you bear it then. As I shall now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i looooove her ok ;_;


	86. Let the Tides Rise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure fluff! Or is it?
> 
> Song: "Drive" by GLADES
> 
> 12/14/20

Ixchel felt heavy and tired after her conversation with Morrigan. Part of her wanted to begin working on a new high-quality dragon slaying rune for her greatsword. Another part of her urged her t go through the eluvian and check up on her companions int the Western Approach. But as she closed the door behind Morrigan and walked up the stairs to her room again, Ixchel did not have the energy to pursue any such desires.

She readied herself to retire for the night, but when she returned from the washroom she found Amarok sitting tall and proud at the foot of her bed. The already massive white wolf was somehow even larger now than when she had last seen him at Suledin Keep. She wondered how it were possible that she hadn’t seen him anywhere in Skyhold thus far—he was impossible to miss, between his size and his striking color.

She nearly did not approach him, for his regal posture and stature was perhaps too noble for cuddles. But then Amarok crooned at her and lowered his head to invite exactly that. She sank into his fur and held him tight. He rubbed his face against her and snorted in her ear.

“Still can’t speak here, _lethallin?”_ she asked. He chuffed at her in response and lowered himself so that she was between his front paws to nuzzle her better. She kneaded his fur, his ears, with her eyes closed and for a few moments allowed herself to revel in whatever connection they had, her and her spirit-protected hold beast.

“Did _she_ send you?” she whispered suddenly.

Amarok opened a blue, blue eye and simply stared at her. She honestly couldn’t tell what his answer was meant to be, if he had one himself.

Ixchel sighed. “Will you come with us through the eluvians?”

Amarok dipped his head. She took that as a yes.

“We should probably get you armor?”

He chirped enthusiastically.

Her conversation with the wolf continued on like this for quite some time. She asked if he had met Kieran yet, and if he had had any more trouble from the Nightmare on his own. But when at last she yawned and moved in the direction of her bed, he stood and pushed her with his head back toward the stairs. She raised her eyebrows at him. “Has another wolf been conspiring with you?” she wondered. He simply gave a whole-body shake and left in the direction of the balcony.

She was curious enough that, when she saw him leap off of the railing, she ran over to see where he had landed—only to find no trace of him on the roof or in the courtyard below.

Ixchel turned slowly from the balcony and wondered at her strange companion even as she went in search of Solas.

He was up on his trestle, sketching more details with charcoal on the plaster he had applied earlier. She tried to be unobtrusive as she made her way to the chaise to observe him, and though he did not turn, she did not doubt that he was aware of her presence. Only a soft murmur came from the great hall, muted by the closed door; the library above them was quiet, and the lamps had been dimmed. Solas worked by a light by his side alone. It created deep, sharp shadows, and she supposed that was likely why he was sketching rather than painting—the colors would have been affected.

“My love,” he said, voice low and sonorous and pitched only for her. “I may be a while.”

“I wanted to watch,” she replied. “That was a condition of my permission for you to deface the beautiful blank walls of this place.”

She could not fully see his face, but she heard the sound of his smile and saw the movement of his ears that told her he had swallowed a laugh. “Then come up here, _lan’sila,”_ he said.

Ixchel wasn’t about to complain, but she _had_ just settled comfortably on the couch, and her limbs felt heavy as she made her way to the ladder. He paused in his sketching while the platform beneath them trembled and waited for her to take a seat at his feet. He moved slightly closer, then returned to his work. “There is little by way of traditional iconography in this scene,” he told her. “The humans have remade Halamshiral in their image, and so that is what I will depict.”

She nodded silently and gazed over his shoulder at the completed panels. She could not decide if it troubled her that so much of the depictions were the same as they had been _before._ Yet at the same time, she did not want to try and pinpoint what was different. How much of these frescoes had been a gift to her, contained his love and his regret, then as they did now?

It weighed on her heavily now, the thought that he had loved her then, too, and denied himself the partnership they now enjoyed. Her chest burned with something akin to hatred for how he had loved her, how he had placed such faith in her, and subjected the two of them to such pain regardless.

An analytical part of her desperately _wanted_ to understand—perhaps, through these frescoes, or otherwise—what was so different. What was it that had enabled her to sway him from his course? Was it that she was better now, more adequate, more desirable? A dark part of her wondered if it was as simple as her age, or if he was so narcissistic that he was attracted to whatever fingerprints he himself had left on her soul.

A darker part of her whispered that he could still decide that she was lacking.

But darkest of all was, perhaps, the closest thing to a truth that she could identify: Solas had always known himself. He had always known he could not let himself get close to her, to love her. And he had always known he could not kill her. She was the fool who had tried him.

Ixchel let loose a long, slow breath. Things were different. He was different. And maybe, if she could kill the false Archdemon at Adamant, she might finally begin to _believe_ it.

She considered all of this even as she drank in the frescoes. It was not true that they were _all_ the same as before. Therinfal was there now, with its tragedies and its topsy-turvy towers. But superimposed now between it and Redcliffe was a green river; it flowed from top to bottom between two halves of a golden orb—perhaps each half was a cup, a font of some kind.

She did not know what it was meant to represent. But the gold in the semicircles then drew her eye to the faint gold braidwork in the deep shadow behind Corypheus’s tarnished halo; at this angle, Solas’s lamp caught the leafing in shifting shapes that seemed almost alive. She took in the simplistic shapes of the Frostbacks and felt that they were almost too simple—for in the corroded gold circle behind Corypheus, she could see intricate—if faint—runes sketched into the background.

A faint haze of red drifted off of the outlines of Corypheus’s form where it was contained within the halo. Now that she compared each panel to its partners, she was surprised there wasn’t a more concentrated appearance of the red in the Fall of Haven. The red orb that surrounded the Black City in the first panel, the eye of the Inquisition, even the red gate and red haze from the Blighted Future seemed to have a more central fixture than this later panel. She wondered at it, but she did not voice her questions.

Her gaze slipped back up the long line of his body to watch him work, but she got distracted along the way by the lithe grace of his figure. She admired the narrow taper of his ankle into his calf, the lean strength of his legs, and the square, even balance of his hips as he maintained a solid stance while he worked. She loved the wiry muscles of his back that she could see shift as he lifted his arm, and her gaze lingered there for a while before following the graceful limb as he sketched more archways.

Though her more glamorous companions ridiculed him for his drab fashion, there was no denying that Solas was impeccably neat. Perhaps that was why it was so mesmerizing to watch his pale hands, alternately smudged with plaster and dusted with black charcoal.

Ixchel’s eyes gradually grew heavy with sleep, and in-between long, slow blinks she began to lose the ability to stay upright. She leaned against his leg, and he shifted his stance a little to support her, but he kept working. She wasn’t sure if she actually slipped into sleep for a moment, but it seemed very suddenly that he was moving against her—putting down his supplies, cleaning his hands. _“Arasha,_ to the Fade with you,” he urged gently.

She nodded slowly and left his side to crawl over to the ladder. Solas watched her as though afraid she might fall, but she made her way down safely and then sat down heavily on his chaise while she waited for him to follow.

He took one look at her and shook his head. “It will not do for the Inquisitor to sleep in her public library,” he said affectionately. “To your _bed_.”

She gave a long-suffering sigh, but before she could move to stand, he had slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her into the air. Ixchel clung to him tightly, startled by the sudden elevation.

“Very forward of you,” she said breathlessly. But then she looped her arms around his neck and accepted his kiss.

Her kisses, like her blinks, were slow and sleepy. She settled in his arms and let her head loll against his shoulder, and somewhere in-between the middle of the rotunda and her quarters, she fell asleep again. She woke with a start as Solas opened a door with his knee and shoulder, and his grip on her tightened slightly to keep her from falling right out of his arms.

"Go back to sleep, _arasha,"_ he said gently. “We are almost there.”

Her fingers felt weak, numb with sleep. Her mind was already fading back into the dark. "I love you," she murmured to him.

"And I, you," he replied. The door closed behind them—distantly. It seemed he was already walking up the final set of stairs to her bedroom. He carefully balanced her and pushed back the thick furs and blankets on her bed to make space for her before setting her down and making sure she was covered again.

His soft footsteps padded away across the rugs and she heard the click of the latches on the glass doors to her balcony as he closed them. She opened her eyes blearily again and saw him framed against the moonlight that poured in from the balcony. He tugged his tunic over his head, then undid a clasp at the back of his undershirt. Then, he was bare-chested; he seemed to be made of moon-light entirely, now, so pale was he.

She closed her eyes—just for a moment—and then he was slipping in beside her beneath the covers in his leggings alone. His skin was hot against hers where they touched, and she pulled away when he reached for her. With the very last of her energy, she twisted and writhed until she had removed her own tunic, and she tossed it out from the bed onto the floor before settling back in his waiting arms. He drew a deep breath as she stretched to press the length of her now-bare abdomen against his, slid her burnt arm around his waist and held him tight.

“And you said _I_ was being forward,” he murmured.

Ixchel pressed a sleepy kiss to his breastbone and then let her cheek lay there to listen to his galloping heart, to drink in his scent. He smelled like incense, just as she had recalled, but also paint and plaster. In that moment, she had simply needed to be skin-on-skin with him, warmth all around her. As their breathing settled into a more relaxed harmony, Solas carefully lay his hand on her arm that stretched across his waist. She was suddenly disappointed that she had so little feeling in that limb, for she could only _just_ tell that he was very lightly exploring the extent of her burn scars with the very tips of his fingers.

It was to this barely-felt sensation that she fell asleep at last—though she could hardly tell if she were dreaming or not, lucidly or otherwise. She was in her bed; Solas was still warm against her, his skin like satin where they touched, and he still smelled of something sacred, and art.

She did not open her eyes, though she was more certain now that they were, in fact, in the Fade. She still felt…heavy with sleep and distant sorrows, and maybe this was how he had felt in that golden Elsewhere, when he had wanted nothing but silence and rest at her side.

It was all she could do: flounder in the face of all she wished he knew, all she wished she could share. For every ounce of relief she felt for having told Morrigan the truth, for all the gratitude she had for the witch’s acceptance and hesitant warmth, she was filled with an ever deeper longing.

She wished it was Solas who knew.

But when could he _ever_ know?

What did it say, that she didn’t think she could ever tell him?

How could she lay here with him and let him love her without knowing the truth?

She drew a sharp breath and held him tighter. For better or worse, she had learned at least one lesson from her past life. She would not run from him simply because she did not know how to tell him the truth. He could kill her if he liked, if he found out before they were ready. But she would not run from it as he had.

 _Is that love?_ she wondered. If so, he may never know how much she loved him in that moment.

Solas swept his hand from where it was dancing across her wrist, up to her shoulder and then her ear, to trace the line of it beneath her hair.

“A troubling day for my love?”

“A busy one,” she agreed quietly. “I’ve done all I can for the clan, for now. I’ll judge Blackwall tomorrow. We’re close to uprooting Samson from his base of operations. I think I have a plan to save the Wardens… Morrigan and I had a good conversation about what Corypheus might be planning…” She sighed. “There’s so much I need to do.”

His chest rose and fell as he, too, sighed. _“Ir abelas.”_

“Apology accepted,” she murmured. She turned her head to press another kiss to his chest, above his heart, and she caught his eye reflecting moonlight in the murk. It left her breathless; his touch behind her ear was suddenly electric. As her skin turned to gooseflesh, every fiber of her being demanded that she be so close to him that they would be indistinguishable. Whether it was to contain him within her, or to be contained within him—it did not matter.

Having been near Amarok so recently, she recognized it was a similar connection, but not complete. Desperately, terribly, incomplete.

His breath, too, caught in his throat.

Ixchel caught the corner of her lip in her teeth and closed her eyes. Maybe she had been a little forward. He had only finally pledged himself to her a few days prior. A few days prior to _that,_ she had bedded another man.

She had no idea how this was supposed to go, really. Love.

When she had the courage to look at him again, she found that he watched her intently, as though afraid to startle her.

“Why do you hide?” he asked, and the words escaped him barely as a breath.

Whatever insufficient explanation she might have offered died in her throat as a strangled noise. His fingers whispered against hers as she drew herself up, and she braced herself with one arm to look down at him. Her long hair swept down from her shoulder and danced on his chest; her ear twitched to be free of it.

Her heart stuttered in her ribs as she watched his eyes slide down from her face—but not to her bare chest. They followed as he instead traced a path with his hand, up from her burnt elbow to her shoulder, then across the line of her collarbone. He traced the swirling scars from an Arcane Horror’s necrotic magic with the pads of his fingers, then the dimpled skin of her neck where Terror’s teeth had left their mark. Still with only the barest touch, he followed the tense line of her throat up to her chin, to the scars and the ink. His eyes had returned to her face, but he touched her like he was blind—cataloging each of the tears, the deep cuts, the nicks.

His thumb brushed across her bottom lip as he curled the rest of his fingers around her cheek.

Ixchel found, suddenly, that she was no longer tired.

Solas let his hand, at last, slide down slowly from her cheek, to her neck, to stray close to her heart. From the press of his elegant fingers against the sliver-thin scar down her chest, she knew that he could feel how desperately her heart struggled to escape its cage.

Ixchel watched, entranced, as his full lips parted in the smallest of smiles. It wasn’t a shy smile; it wasn’t particularly reserved, either. It was all-too-aware, and it was full of admiration.

Her arm wobbled at the matching light in his eye.

_“Isalan hima sa i'na, Ixchel.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isalan hima sa i'na, Ixchel. - I lust to become one with you, Ixchel


	87. Adhleadanal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates might be a little slower than the breakneck pace I somehow held up until now. My PhD candidacy exam is in early january and there's lots to do to prepare that unfortunately involves a lot more science and a lot less daydreaming
> 
> 12/16/20

His husky intonation fed the burning need in her chest, and set fire to her blood. She drowned in his eyes, illuminated by the moon but dark with desire that was not _simply_ lust. As always, his eyes were silvered mirrors, and in them, Ixchel saw the same transcendent longing that had been pulling her to him all this time—

She opened her mouth to reply but her breath had been thoroughly robbed of her.

So instead, Ixchel slid forward along his body to kiss him in a wordless response. As she moved, his warm, wide hand swept back up from her chest to the back of her neck to guide her to him, and his other arm came around her back to pull her fully onto him so she straddled his waist. The moment their lips met, they were lost in each other; she sighed into his mouth with a paradoxical mix of relief and frustration at their closeness.

There was no urgency in him whatsoever as his hand explored her back, as he swept his fingers through her. He seemed content to drink her in slowly, sensually, like the strongest whiskey or the rarest delicacy. Their tongues met between them in a hot, velvety embrace, and she was likewise content, for she had not yet been inoculated to the thrill of his touch. Just the feeling of his wide, calloused palm gliding against the musculature of her shoulders was enough to make her head spin. She could feed off of that high forever.

She lowered her upper body to lean into him, her bare breasts pressed against his chest, and the hand that explored her back suddenly pressed tight against her shoulder blades to pin her to him. She did not resist, and she molded herself to him, pushing impossibly deeper into their kiss.

When at last he tipped his chin up and broke away, his breaths were deep and ragged. She peered down at him and found him so flushed and well-kissed, it took every ounce of her resolve not to dive back and pursue him.

They breathed together for a moment. In the comfortable pause, they gazed upon each other and assessed the choice laying before them.

"This will attract attention," he said under his breath.

Ixchel tilted her head. "I don't care what they think. That you're an apostate? Another elf? That you're too _old_ for me?"

His eyes lit up with mischief. "I meant demons, _'ma’lath._ Did you not realize where we were?"

She rolled her eyes and dipped down to press a faint kiss to the corner of his smirking mouth. "Of course I knew," she said under her breath, and then she kissed his chin. "I just didn't think that my ancient Elvhen rebel mage was bothered by demons?"

Her lips found the corner of his jaw as she spoke, and his hips shifted beneath her tellingly.

"I'm generally not a voyeur, no," he said, "and my blood does not run hot in the face of danger as yours might, Champion—"

His breath seized, and his fingers tightened in her hair as she pressed an open-mouthed kiss a little further down his neck.

"It's a shame," she sighed against his skin. "I always find more courage in the Fade."

Solas chuckled and pulled her back up to his lips with a gentle tug of her hair. Between shallow, receding kisses, he uttered a ragged, "Me too."

But he was right. She heard something rattle out on the balcony, and a split-second later, all the light in the room was blocked out by a massive figure.

 _"I have found you again, da'len,"_ the Nightmare whispered—but its voice was muted as though by a vast distance.

She and Solas had both turned their heads to stare at the tidal wave of power and fear that was the Nightmares puppet projected into this realm. A six-eyed shadow pressed against the glass; its red maw dripped red lyrium and its breath was pure, distilled Fade magic, and all six of its hungry eyes were locked on them

Then, suddenly the image was but a fresco. Instead of the sinister red eyes, this wolf wore an intelligent, if innocent and perhaps a bit awed expression. It walked in the wake of the moon, and a familiar figure led the way—arms and head flung back in the moon's light, full of blind abandon.

Ixchel immediately rolled off of Solas and stood. She did not look at the ‘self-portrait by Fen’Harel,’ as the Ban-Hassrath had supposed it might be; one day, it would be brutishly chipped out from its home and dragged to the Darvaarad. They were not in the Darvaarad, but that did not matter. It was dangerous for her to be here, especially with the Nightmare’s tendrils seeking her through the Fade—

It did not need to reach her to hurt her.

For her heart wrenched at the thought of that heedless figure flying through the Fade, the lightness of that form, the fearless and unperturbed expression of the wolf that followed. When she had seen him next, at the heart of his refuge, it had been so hard to reconcile that innocence with the deep shadows he cast—and the burden he carried so heavily on his shoulders—and the grief he wore like a mantle.

She forced herself to look at Solas as he was now and found that he had rolled on to his side to watch her. There was no bed beneath him, just a humble mat with a fur. Arrayed around it were art supplies. Perhaps this was a memory from when he had just completed the fresco behind her. Again, he looked young here—though the long, beautiful hair that marked his early days as Fen’Harel was gone.

And his ever-grieving eyes, of course, were the eyes of her lover as she knew him. As she had always known him.

Those eyes were on her without expectation, without any offense due to the her abrupt departure from his side. There was only concern in them, and that almost hurt her more.

She closed her eyes, and in the short span of that brief darkness, Solas had stood and moved closer to her. He did not touch her, but his warmth and his presence surrounded her. “It still seeks you,” he murmured.

Ixchel held her hands between them, palms turned up to reveal the Anchor. She willed _Adhleadanal_ into her hands. Her throat worked around a sudden knot, and then she opened her eyes and looked down at her beloved axe: dragon-bone staff, volcanic aurum for the heart of the blade, and a stormheart edge. The staff bore the intricate runework of the most precious dragon- and demon-slaying magicks. It had been a masterpiece the likes of which she had never known before or since.

It was the weapon that would slay a god.

She drank it in with the utmost attention to detail. She tried to sear them to her brain, for use upon waking; too many years had passed since she had crafted such a potent rune.

“These seem right?” she asked Solas, for she assumed that he would be able to assess their magical worth with an expert eye.

As he turned his gaze down to see what she looked at with such focus, he said, with a startled note in his voice, “I do not think you can kill the Nightmare in single combat, Ixchel.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she replied tartly.

His fingers traced the dragon-slaying rune. “This is incredibly powerful,” he confirmed.

She opened her eyes wider as if that might help her remember them in the morning. “Yes,” she said, “it was.” She curled one hand tightly around the grip—leather, padded with imperial vestment cotton and embroidered with the names of the people she loved the most. “And it’s time for it to find a life in a new form.”

She felt her attention waver as something or someone tried to wrest her mind violently out from Solas’s control of the Fade. In that split-second, she was in the Frostback Basin, bare-chested as she was now, freshly painted with Avvar war paint against the cold. Ice was all around her, and the vast shore of the lake, and a dragon-god screaming in her face.

And _Adhleadanal_ in her hands, aflame in the light of the setting sun.

The dream shifted back into place as Solas gripped the axe as well. Ixchel did not know if he had seen what she had remembered. She did not know if she could explain it if he had, but he did not seem to question it. He only seemed immeasurably more concerned than before.

“If our love is to endure,” she said bitterly, “this needs to end. I will never be able to rest without running until Corypheus is done.”

She bowed her head against his chest and Solas understood that he had permission to touch her again. He wrapped his arms around her and fisted a hand tightly in her hair.

“This is not your _din'an'shiral,"_ he said quietly. “You will not face your enemies alone.”

Perhaps he meant his words to give her pause, but they had the opposite effect. There had been a warning in his voice not to leave him behind, not to go face another of Corypheus’s monsters without him at her side. And with that warning came a promise that pierced the darkness within her. Her determination was bolstered—her hope came more easily, perhaps even foolishly so—to know that she had his faith so readily, to see the vow in his eyes.

When they came together at last, when they truly were laid bare to one another—it would be something to shake the heavens.

For better or worse.

She longed for that day, and now that she had a plan Ixchel was not about to throw it all away to a suicide mission. Not now.

Kill the false Archdemon, and then there would be nothing keeping her from finding Corypheus, luring him far enough away from his Blighted minions, and then killing him. With no promise of victory, with no master to serve, the Nightmare might leave her be.

Then all she would have ahead of her was the rest of her life...with Solas. Whatever would come afterward…they would be in it together.

Her spirit latched on to it, shaped itself to it, imprinted that promise in her heart. Perhaps she were only stringing the bow that would catch her at her most defenseless—revealing the flaw in her armor, leaving an opening for Despair in things didn’t go exactly as they should. Yet it filled her with such hope, such radiant and ferocious joy to think of it, she could not bear to release it now.

 _I will always fight for you,_ she thought. _For us._

Ixchel gave him a gleaming smile.

"I cannot walk this path alone, _lethallan,"_ she told him. "I have only ever spoken truly, Solas.” She stretched up to kiss him again, tried to communicate her ardent passion in a way words never could. But at last, she slipped from his grasp.

Ixchel tore herself from the Fade—and Solas pursued. He tightened his grip on her before she could even move from the bed. Here in the waking world, the heat of his touch was more potent, and the coiling feeling in her chest that made it so hard to breathe was nearly unbearable. She needed to kiss him, as sleepy as he seemed. But she did not. She sat up and lay the hand that held the Anchor on his chest.

“Tell me the path ahead, _rogasha’ghil’an,”_ he beseeched her.

He covered it with his own as he looked up at her gravely in the dark. For of course, he was not merely a mage. Nor was he merely a rebel. He had been a soldier long enough. A general, perhaps. He worried where this war might lead her. She could at least tell him that.

“How did Corypheus survive the explosion at the Conclave?” she began. “How did he survive when Hawke and Varric _for sure_ killed him? The secret is hiding in plain sight: his dragon.”

Solas’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “It is not a corrupted Old God,” he said slowly, as though uncertain of where that left them, uncertain if he were supposed to know such a thing.

“It’s not,” she agreed, “but do you know why we need Grey Wardens, Solas?”

He gave a short shake of his head, almost imperceptible.

“The soul of the Old God can jump to the nearest Blighted thing, and that thing that contains the soul _becomes_ another Archdemon. Wardens carry the Blight, and the one who strikes the killing blow will take the soul of the Old God into them…and they die, together.” Ixchel curled her fingers against his chest. “With Corypheus’s control over the Wardens’ Calling—with the way he treats it as just another form of magic that he understands and can manipulate…with the spread of red lyrium through his elite fighting forces…”

A terrible understanding broke across Solas’s face. “They are his insurance plan.”

Ixchel nodded. “And what’s a creature that is so hard to kill, and can fly in and out of danger at a moment’s notice? His Blighted dragon. If I can kill it, then all I need to do is lure Corypheus away from his forces, his Blighted lieutenants…and he will be as mortal as I am.” She gave Solas a grim smile. “That is why Samson must be taken out of the picture, and why no Warden can be left under Corypheus’s control, either. He cannot have any body to escape to.”

She looked away from him briefly, out at the moons that hung high above Thedas. “Storming Samson’s base with the element of surprise will rob him of the bulk of his forces, their base of operation…and who knows what secrets we’ll find either about him, his armor, or about Corypheus? Then, we’ll stop the Wardens from being bound with blood magic, and I’ll send them all to Weisshaupt. Morrigan’s lover, Warden Mahariel, is apparently so far away that he cannot hear Corypheus’s Calling at all. Perhaps they will be safe there. All he’ll have left is his Venatori, and somehow, I doubt that the proud Magisters will agree to be either Blighted or sacrificed. Calpernia, their leader, has already had her doubts raised. She’s a former slave. Perhaps I can take her away from Corypheus, or even turn her against him. And then…who will he have left?”

Ixchel looked back at Solas. “No, I am not fool enough to believe I can do any of this alone, Solas. That would be—” her lips twisted into the most bitter, self-deprecating smirk “—suicide.”

Solas sat up and drew her closer, so that she was nearly in his lap. He buried his face in her neck. “You are hoping that without a master, the Nightmare will relent?”

“My fears are not eternal, like the Blight,” she pointed out. “My fears are, in fact, quite simplistic. I can’t imagine why it would stay on my heel without Corypheus’s interests in mind.”

“I can only hope you are correct…about all of this.”

Ixchel cupped the back of his neck in her hand and sighed at the tension she found there. “Me too,” she said quietly. “A few more runes can’t hurt.”

Solas exhaled in a sharp half-laugh against her shoulder. Then, his lips brushed the sensitive skin where her neck met her collar, and his laugh became something heavier. He was certainly aware of the full-body response it elicited from her; she was still bare from the waist up, and now she was all goose-flesh against him in the cool night.

“Let us inscribe these runes, then, Champion,” he said into her throat, even as his lips wandered upward. Solas still hadn’t released the Anchor from where it pressed against his chest, and his fingers tightened on hers when she tried to pull it away. His teeth found her earlobe, and her skin _jumped_ from head to toe. “The sooner we succeed, the sooner we can find Elsewhere together, _arasha.”_

It took every ounce of strength she had to raise her other hand to his face, to cover his lips with her splayed fingers and gently push him away. “ _Var lath vir suledin,”_ she said again, but this time, there was both a question and an apology in it.

He leaned forward, even with her fingers between them, and he kissed her gently on the mouth. “It shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter in which I disappoint you, me, ixchel, solas...  
> it shan't last forever! I will earn my E rating again soon enough!  
> -  
> Adhleadanal - the breaking light of dawn  
> Arasha - my happiness


	88. The Company of Spirits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we continue our "getting the ducks in a row before Adamant" arc...
> 
> I try to keep my personal headcanons pretty vague in this fic, I think, but there are some small things on the nature of spirits and ancient elves that might come up soon. ho hum
> 
> Thanks for sticking around! <3 Especially after last chapter. ;)
> 
> 12/17/20

Solas helped her dress with only a few distractions in the form of lingering kisses to her shoulder and cheek, and then he followed her down to the Undercroft. Ixchel had brought the chromatic great sword with her, because Andruil be damned she was going to make it her own. She did not question Solas’s presence at her side—in fact, she appreciated it. She was not rested, and she was anxious, and he had seen the runework just as she had in the Fade; he could spot her when she erred.

Ixchel did not consider herself an artist. Her singing was rough and warbly at best. But when she was sat over a piece of metal or bone to etch out an insignia of power…

Blackwall had once suggested she take up whittling, like him. But she did not have the patience—or, perhaps, the imagination—to go from a rough hunk of material into a finely shaped art piece. She could work the most elegant of weapons out of a schematic, but creating a sculpture? Yet _this_ was what she loved most of all: _finishing._ Decorating. _Elaborating._ At one point, she had covered Blackwall’s roughly-hewn wooden toys with intricate patterns and paint and inlays. She could turn a flat surface into the scales of a dragon, or emboss leather with sigils fit for a king. Runecrafting was the pinnacle of such work, and it was good to return to it after so long.

Solas sat beside her at the workstation, leaned against the table with one elbow and handed her tools or brushed away shavings as she worked. He seemed more than content to observe in such a way as she incorporated the runes into the scale-like pattern that already embossed the hilt of the great sword. The dragon-slaying rune she added on the opposite side from the inscription that was already there, and the demon-slaying rune she inscribed on the pommel—for she did so often find herself using it to concuss her enemies. Ixchel toiled through the night in an almost fugue state, barely breathing, so great was her focus; she nodded almost without hearing when Solas murmured a correction or remembered a detail she had forgotten. As dawn approached, he snuffed out the veil fire they had been using, and allowed the light of the sun to fill the Undercroft.

At last, Ixchel was done. She released the diamond-tipped scribe from her hand and flexed her aching hand; there were red welts on her fingers from how tightly she had gripped the metal rod during her work, and tiny metal shavings clung to her.

Solas took her hand and dusted away the debris, and then he raised her fingers to his lips and imparted a soothing wave of magic upon them with a kiss. “You have given your arcanist a masterwork to live up to,” he said appreciatively. “I did not know you were versed in such artificing.” She looked up at him, and without even speaking, he seemed to recall exactly the exact conversation she was remembering: when he had helped her don her armor before heading to Redcliffe. “Did you learn that from the one who made your dragon-bone armor?”

Ixchel nodded.

“You have a quick mind for learning,” Solas noted. “I imagine that such recall helped you preserve many of your findings, in the ruins of your childhood.”

Ixchel nodded again and leaned in to his side. He surprised her by drawing her into his lap on the workbench, and he circled his arms beneath hers to hold her even closer. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “The People are lucky to have a Champion such as you,” he said against Dirthamen’s raven there. “If I tell you everything that was lost, you could tell it for generations to come…you could give it new life, make it grow…”

His lips slipped to her nose as he spoke, then found her lips again. She raised her hands to his cheeks to hold him as he kissed her, and she swept her thumbs back and forth across his face to feel the shift of his muscles beneath, the soft, smooth skin under her calloused fingers—

“O—oh! My apologies, Inquisitor!”

Ixchel pulled away to find Dagna standing in the doorway to the Undercroft. The dwarf was slack-jawed and starry eyed.

“Ah, Dagna,” she greeted, clearing her throat. She moved to stand, but Solas’s fingers tightened oh-so-firmly against the swell of her hip. She elbowed him. “I have something very important to request of you.”

Dagna turned as red as her hair. “Oh?” she squeaked.

Solas at least allowed her to reach for the chromatic great sword. She held it in Dagna’s distant direction. “I have etched two superb runes in this weapon, and I can think of no other I would trust to infuse them with the lyrium needed for activation.”

Dagna’s face cleared, and she jumped down the steps to accept the seemingly empty sword hilt. “Wow! These _are_ superb! Normally I wouldn’t put runes on an incomplete weapon, though, Inquisitor—”

Ixchel tightened her grip on the sword, and its light-infused blade flared to life. In its radiance, Dagna’s face filled with wonder. “Oooh! In that case—it’s my _honor,_ Your Worship! This is exactly what I was talking about: in certain rational patterns, the lyrium will _beat_ like something alive. You must have the ear for it. And hands. Eyes, too.”

“How soon can you complete them, Arcanist?” Ixchel asked.

“Tonight, if it’s all I do!” Dagna laughed giddily. “Wouldn’t be worth the money if I couldn’t!”

“And we are paying you _a lot,”_ Ixchel agreed. “Thank you, Dagna.”

There was a split-second pause, where Dagna clearly needed the work bench, and Solas clearly did not want to let Ixchel move from his lap. The two women looked at him expectantly, and at last he relented.

The Great Hall was already alive with early-risers, and heads _did_ turn as Ixchel led Solas back up to her quarters. When the first door closed, she looked back at him with a vaguely irritated look—which was defeated by the fact that she fisted her hands in his tunic and stood on her tiptoes to give him that look only inches away from his face.

“I love you,” she said fiercely.

Solas’s eyes flared with light, and her hair crackled with magic. “And we will save the world.”

Ixchel sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. _How dare he,_ she thought hysterically as the light in his eyes filled his face, as he tried to hide his smile. _How dare he...understand so perfectly._

He leaned back ever-so-slightly, threatening to pull her off-balance. “Shall you judge Warden Blackwall in your night gown?”

Ixchel released him with a push and whirled around to race up the stairs the rest of the way to her room.

Solas did not follow her, and he was gone when she came down again, dressed in clothes far more appropriate for the Inquisitor. She went in search of Josephine to set the time for Blackwall’s judgment, and to coordinate other resources she would need in place for the coming days. For example: Eldhru, her white hart, was currently stranded on the Exalted Plains—but he would not be the wisest choice for the deserts of the Western Approach.

Then she went in search of Leliana to provide additional oversight regarding their movements around the Temple of Dumat. She wished she could just step through one eluvian and come out the other at the Ghislain estate to coordinate with Vivienne, Dorian, and the Iron Bull, but she had too much to take care of—and particularly for human messengers, it seemed like it would take just as long for a raven to reach her people as it would to reach them through the eluvians.

Of course, there had been no more news from Wycome yet.

As Ixchel and Leliana spoke, the Inquisitor spied one of Leliana’s runners—an agent called Rector, whose real name was Wilbur—approaching. He gave a subtle, almost desperate shake of his head, but Leliana had already seen Ixchel’s attention waver.

The Nightingale turned and fixed him with a puzzled look.

Rector gulped. He held out his hand, and Ixchel saw that he had a bee in his palm. “I—I was told to put this in your wine?”

Leliana stared at him. “That’s a _bee?”_

“It’s dead?” he offered, cringing.

“Not better!” Leliana spluttered.

“He said bees make honey!” Now the runner cringed as though Leliana might think he were trying to poison her. Ixchel put her hand out to stop Leliana from moving, though the Nightingale had not indicated she were about to.

“Ah, I think Cole was trying to help,” she offered. The messenger nodded.

“That just—makes no sense,” Leliana said, flabbergasted. “…Perhaps it is sweet.” She sighed. “Please tell the boy…thank you?”

The messenger looked incredibly relieved and bowed. “I shall, Sister.”

“By the way, Rector,” Leliana said, “what did Morrigan say?”

He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “She scowled and admitted that Kieran chose the gown.”

Leliana snapped her fingers delightedly. “I knew it!” she said with savage glee. “Red velvet. The boy has wonderful taste.”

“Oh, she _also_ said to tell you to stay away from him,” Rector said hesitantly. “You are a…bad influence.”

Leliana rolled her eyes. “If he is anything like his mother, _he_ will seek _me_ out for my secrets,” she said and waved Rector off.

Ixchel followed Rector shortly thereafter to go in search of Cole. As she passed through the rotunda, she noted that Solas was missing as well and figured that she might find the two together, so she pressed the Anchor to her chest and tried to focus on the particular hum of its power through the Veil around her. In that way, she felt Solas’s distant presence, and she went searching.

Ixchel found them near the stables: Amarok was curled around Cole, snarling, while the spirit himself gesticulated wildly in Solas’s direction. Solas had his arms crossed firmly.

“No!” he said, with enough force it seemed that he had said it a hundred times already.

“But you _like_ spirits!”

Solas caught sight of Ixchel approaching, and relief broke across his stern face. “We enjoy the company of spirits, yes, which is part of why I do not abuse them with bindings,” he said without looking at Cole.

Cole likewise turned to Ixchel. “It isn’t abuse if I _ask!”_ Cole insisted.

Ixchel held up her hands. “Now, that is not the best lesson to learn from the Iron Bull,” she said cautiously. “We’re not talking about sex, I hope.” She eyed Solas pointedly, but he simply glared at her.

“I want to help you!” Cole nearly shouted. “But I’m afraid to be bound, like the Wardens will bind their army! I don’t want to hurt innocent people anymore, I want to _help,_ but I can’t if I’m bound by the _wrong person.”_

Ixchel felt the ground drop out from beneath her. “Cole, that can’t—”

But she didn’t know that that wasn’t true, did she? Cole hadn’t been at the _battle_ of Adamant. He had stayed at the forward camp, to tend to the injured and comfort the dying; it was only after they had discovered the terrible truths that Cole had come to her, sought her out, panicked about being bound. She did not know whether he could be caught up in a binding ritual if he were actually present in the fortress. And the thought of it—of losing _Cole_ —threatened to end her then and there.

“It scares you so much,” Cole said in a trembling voice. “That place. What's to come. I want to help people. I want to help _you.”_

Ixchel did not look at Solas as she approached Cole and Amarok and wrapped her arms around the former. Cole was shaking, but he didn’t hug her back like a _person._ He just stood, hunched and upset.

“If I’m bound… I’m not me anymore. Walls around what I want, blocking, bleeding…making me a monster.”

“I will not let that happen to you!” Ixchel promised urgently. “But asking Solas to bind you isn’t the answer, _lethallin._ What if it takes away the part of you that makes you…you?”

 _“Helping_ makes me who I am,” Cole protested. “I help the hurting. That is what I do, all I do, am, _me!”_

“And if binding you erases your mind?” Solas interjected, voice cold with his fury. “Your consciousness?”

Cole looked away, shadowed his face behind his hat. “You wouldn’t make me hurt innocent people. I don’t want to hurt innocent people again.” He clutched at her suddenly. “I know you can help. You’re always helping me. _You’ve known me._ But that just makes me want to help more!”

“Being a mindless slave would not help her. She wants you to be _you,_ Cole,” Solas said.

Ixchel dipped her head beneath Cole’s hat and caught his eye. “Solas is right. And you are right. But…I cannot make that choice for you, _lethallin.”_

“I may have a path forward, if Cole is ready to listen,” Solas said.

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “If you don’t want me to speak to like a _hahren,_ Solas, don’t speak to Cole like a child, please,” she said. Then she braced Cole. “Be confident that we shall help you. Blood magic is not the only way.”

Cole bit his lip and nodded. Then he turned bodily to face Solas, head low like a kicked dog. Solas’s face immediately softened at the sight, but he laced his hands together behind him as though to restrain himself from reaching for Cole as Ixchel had. “I recall amulets used by Rivaini seers to protect the spirits they summoned from rival mages. A spirit wearing an Amulet of the Unbound was immune to blood magic and binding. It should protect you as well.”

“Good!” Cole said. Then, he wilted. “It won’t work?”

Ixchel hugged him tighter. “It is ultimately your choice, _lethallin,”_ she said.

Solas gave her a sharp look. “It should be simple enough, in theory. He puts on the amulet, and I charge it with magic.”

“But Cole isn’t simple, Solas,” she replied, and she finally raised her gaze to him. “It’s why you two find such comfort in one another, _‘ma’lath.”_

Solas’s concerned expression suddenly crumbled, his mask struck aside by her unexpected insight. His eyes were on Ixchel even as Cole wrenched free.

 _“I_ don’t matter!” Cole spat. “Just lock away the parts of me that someone else could knot together to make me follow.”

“Would you be able to tell?” Ixchel asked Solas quietly.

He was silent, eyes narrow and wondering.

Ixchel turned back to Cole. “Give Cole life, _lethallin._ Tell me how you died.”

Cole hung his head, fists clenched. He shook his head once, then stiffened. “A broken body, bloody, banged on the stone cell. Guts gripping in the dark dank, a captured apostate.” He drew a shuddering breath. “They threw him into the dungeon in the Spire at Val Royeaux. They forgot about him. He starved to death. I came through to help…and I couldn’t… So I became him. Cole.”

She could hear the tears in his voice, but Ixchel did not go to Cole. She looked at Solas briefly—then flung her arm out to bar Cole from running past her.

“Let me kill him!” Cole said, frantic. He clutched at her arm and grew suddenly still. “I need to,” he breathed. “The Templar. I need to.”

Ixchel held on to him tightly and looked at Solas.

“You are a spirit,” he said to Cole. “The death of Cole wounded you, perverted you from your purpose… But you are not mortal yet, my friend. To regain the part of you, to remain pure, you must realign yourself with your nature: you must forgive.”

“And this is the choice,” Ixchel said softly. Solas’s jaw clenched, but he did not speak against her. “Spirits don’t work through emotions; they embody them. Such is the cost of their immortality, and the joy they find in their purpose. Mortals, with their freedom, are mutable; they change, get hurt, heal.” She rubbed Cole’s shoulder soothingly. “It’s a difficult choice to make, Cole, but only you can make it.”

Cole shuddered, tilted his head toward Solas. “He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face.” Then he inclined his head toward Ixchel, and he said, “War and weariness, blood and battle, life learning to lead, clash, kill—never to love, only to leave. Purpose denied, rejected every time. So you left.”

There was a long moment of silence in which no one could look at each other.

Then, Solas sighed. “Compassion… An uncommon spirit, and all too fragile, when its efforts to help proved to be in vain,” he said. “The world would be lesser, to lose you.”

“Or it could be better,” Ixchel countered, “if he grew.”

Cole had started to shake again. But Ixchel released him, and she took a step toward Solas. She took his hand, though for just a moment he seemed reticent, and she looked up into his eyes and silently demanded his attention, his open mind, to hear what she was about to say. “It is his choice,” she said. “We will honor it, and whatever the outcome, we will help him help people, because that is who and what Cole is—a helper—no matter what. We will make sure he holds true. Just as we do for each other, and for any friend.”

Solas’s fingers slowly curled around hers, and he nodded.

“How could I put honey in Leliana’s wine without her noticing?” Cole asked softly, but Ixchel did not respond. “How could I know that I _should?”_ Cole sat on Amarok’s back; the wolf had been silent and watching since Ixchel arrived. “Solas helps you, even though he’s—” Cole frowned. “But he also hurts you.”

Ixchel squeezed Solas’s hand, and he let out a weary half-laugh. “Ah, yes. That is indeed part of this existence. That, and failure.”

“I don’t know that I can find an amulet by the time we’d need it,” Ixchel said quietly, “even with the resources of the Inquisition.”

Cole gave a shaky sigh. “I know,” he said.

Ixchel looked back at him. “You do?”

Cole nodded slowly, and then he turned his face into Amarok's shoulder. “The children. I can stay with the children. Their parents gone out to a war they’ll never know, to the West. The Nightmare can try to get them, too. But I won’t let it.” He raised his head just enough for her to see his smile beneath the brim of his hat. “Not while I can. Not while I wait. Not while _we_ wait.”

* * *


	89. Pole-Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/18/20

“For judgment this day, Inquisitor,” Josephine said loudly as she approached Ixchel’s throne, “I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall.”

Last time Ixchel had done this, Thom had dragged and shuffled pitifully in the grip of her soldiers, for he was still in the depths of his self-loathing. Now, he strode forward with his head high and his jaw tight, ready to hear his fate with dignity.

The soldiers released him, and he stepped before her throne, arms bound in front of him.

“The Empress Celene released him from imperial custody with this message: let the savior of Orlais lead us once again. May your light shine on the path of justice, and we shall follow. The decision of what to do with Thom Rainier is yours.”

Ixchel nodded at Josephine shortly and raised a hand toward Thom. “Thom Rainier… Eight years ago, you were a well-respected captain in the Orlesian army. Seven years ago, you accepted gold to take out a civilian ally of Empress Celene’s in the War of the Lions. You told your men only that they were on a mission, and to leave no survivors. You did not change those orders when you learned that there would be children in the target’s entourage.”

Ixchel’s voice was so grave that the usual whispers of the great hall had fallen silent to listen. No one dared to even gasp, though a few fans had come out to cover faces and flap in quiet horror. Ixchel kept her eyes on Thom.

 _“Twenty_ years ago,” she continued, “Celene Valmont allowed her entire household of servants—children included—to be massacred by the Dowager Lady Mantillon, simply to secure sympathy for her bid for the throne.”

Ixchel let her voice echo through the hall. Thom’s brow had knit together in deepening concern and confusion, but he did not speak. Josephine had gone quite stiff beside them.

“Empress Celene has pledged herself to building a country where all backgrounds are treated fairly. Though she would say that I am to set the example, I look to _her_ in this as an example. I look to the Grey Wardens, and the Hero of Ferelden, as an example. And I will make an example of you, too, Thom Rainier.”

Ixxchel stood slowly.

“It is true that you are not Warden Blackwall. He fell in battle, defending you—his last wish for you to become a Warden. And for years, you strove to keep Warden Blackwall’s name one synonymous with honor. For years, you preached that the Wardens were meant to be protectors, a shield for Thedas against the evils of the Blight, and more."

She saw Leliana and Morrigan at the back of the room, each in separate corners, watching her.

“For years, you looked upon the worst criminals and the most honorable knights and said, ‘You too may serve.’ For months, you fought alongside the Inquisition to protect the innocent, to thwart evil. You helped save hundreds of civilians after Haven. So I say to you now: you’re free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you were, or the Warden you pretended to be.”

She smiled at him briefly, then looked out at those gathered to watch. “If we want a better world, we can’t afford to pretend that people can’t change. And we can either encourage the wicked to change with fear of punishment, or with hope of forgiveness. Let this be what the Inquisition stands for.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel took Thom to the tavern after the crowd had dispersed, and after sending Cabot for a few rounds, she went up to the second floor to gain them a little more privacy. There, she found Sutherland, Shayd, Voth, and Rat; all of their eyes turned to the Inquisitor and the disgraced warrior.

Sutherland jumped to his feet. “Inquisitor!”

“Just the heroes I was thinking of,” Ixchel said brightly. “I need some backup I trust on an important mission. Thought I’d ask personally.”

“Anything, Your Worship!” Sutherland said without even a second thought. “Anything. We owe you that.”

Ixchel shook her head. “No one owes me anything,” she said, and gave Thom a look. “Now, I’ve got some rounds coming up for us, and we can sit down and plan how this is going to go.”

They pulled together another table and dragged a few more chairs over, and Ixchel and Blackwall joined Sutherland’s crew.

“So all of the Orlesian Wardens have been taken hostage by the Elder One’s mind control?” Sutherland said, jaw on his chest.

“And dragged them all out to the furthest reaches of the Western Approach to kill them all? Blimey,” swore Shayd.

Ixchel nodded slowly. “I’ve had Cullen mobilize all our army. I kind of counted on the fact that he’d overlook you.”

She began to draw with her finger on the tabletop and discussed her battle plan.

Their drinks came up, and they drank them solemnly as she continued to speak. At last, she leaned back. “So you see why I need a smaller infiltration force. I know I’m asking a lot of you. All of you. But I trust very few others to get this done.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Thom grumbled. “And honorable above all.”

“Aye,” said Sutherland. “But I thought you weren’t a Warden?”

“Even so,” Thom said, “I’ve heard enough of the lore. Someone once told me that Adamant _is_ and always will be t _he Order._ ” He shook his head slowly. “To think it might hold the heart of the Order hostage right now…”

“We need to save them from themselves,” Ixchel said. “That fancy speech I just gave will be a lot harder for people to swallow if they hear that the Wardens were involved in blood magic. Even if it was against their will.”

“Almost worse if it is,” Thom agreed. “No one likes a fallen hero. And the Wardens are only heroes to some.”

“Like Donal said,” said Shayd. “We fight for you, Inquisitor.”

“If Leliana doesn’t hate me, I have a contact who can get plans of that fortress,” Thom said.

“Of all our people, Leliana would be the one who understands best,” Ixchel assured him. “Get on it. Tomorrow, I’ll be taking Thom with me to meet with the Iron Bull, Vivienne, and Dorian to take down Samson. After that, we’re headed out to the Western Approach. I’ll take all of you then. You can head off from our forward camp by this oasis.” Ixchel pushed away from the table. “Prepare, but don’t forget that resting is part of that.”

“Aye, Inquisitor!”

She clapped Thom on the shoulder. “Cassandra’s the one you should worry about,” she said. “And Vivienne.”

He nodded gravely. “You know, I figured Madame de Fer could take it either way. Maybe she’d appreciate my ability to play her Grand Game a little more… It was a silly thought.”

-:-:-:-:-

Dagna was done with her great sword by evening, as she had promised. The arcanist found Ixchel just as she was making her way back to the Great Hall.

Her hands were glowing with lyrium and some other substance that cast rainbows across her gloves. “I took the liberty of studying how the light is harnessed into a shape!” the dwarf said excitedly. “I have so many ideas. Armor made out of light itself? You could even refract the light from both sides of you and become invisible that way—just physics, not magic! Imagine!”

Ixchel was more focused on the feeling of the power in her hands. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath, as though she had been holding something in, waiting for something, all this time. It had been so long since she had held something so powerful in _two hands._

At this point, she had gotten used to having both arms again. But something had been missing, still. For as much as she was a leader, a general—as much as she was a prophet of her own kind—she was a warrior first and foremost. A weapon always was and always would be an extension of her body, and she had only become more powerful since returning from the Breach this second time.

Now, with a weapon to match her ability…she was _whole._

-:-:-:-:-

When Solas came to find Ixchel, she was sitting on her balcony with her legs hanging between the railing, looking out at the fires in the river valley below. There were far fewer now than there had once been, but she knew that it was because her forces had been sent on the road to the Western Approach already. And that hurt.

She remembered how empty Skyhold had been when she returned from Adamant. It wasn’t _just_ Hawke she had lost. It wasn’t just that so many Wardens had been slaughtered. It wasn’t just that she had fallen into the Fade and been faced with her worst fears and the worst fears of her dearest friends.

She remembered exactly how many of her soldiers she had lost in that cursed siege.

Solas brought a fur out from her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders as he sat down behind her.

“Are you truly frightened of what is to come?” he asked solemnly.

Ixchel struggled to speak around the knot in her throat. She leaned back into his chest, and he pressed a kiss to her hair. “Yes,” she said. “The more hope I have…the more plans I have in place…the more I am afraid of what happens when everything falls apart.”

His breath was warm against the back of her neck. “Failure is a part of this place,” he said meditatively.

She swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to seem like I was standing against you earlier, Solas,” she hurried to say. “I just don’t want either of us to be making this choice for Cole. We both have our regrets, and…that is the past. Cole has his own future to choose.”

Solas hummed and wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her closer. “You do not know my regrets,” he said, very neutrally—painfully neutrally.

Ixchel sat very still, in the silence left behind. She had to remind herself that he held her trapped against him; he was not running, and she was not chasing. But she did not know what to say, because he _was_ right, and he was _wrong_ , too.

He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, pushed aside the fur and the collar of her coat to breath deeply against her skin—vandal aria again, thanks to the generous gifts of her patrons. “It is not easy, even after choosing to take a body, to change our nature,” he said at last. “That is the irony of the two worlds, how they reflect one another. The Fade itself is mutable, but its inhabitants less so. The waking world is _stubborn,_ yet its inhabitants are fleeting and ever-changing. Eternally _surprising.”_

Solas pressed a kiss to her skin, only to follow it by sinking his teeth lightly into the sensitive line of tension between her shoulder and neck. She jumped on reflex, but he had tightened his grip on her preemptively. He chuckled. “Surprising in their unpredictable choices…surprising in their consistency.” She turned her head and found him very close, of course; he cut his eyes at her with a critical, but not cold look. “I often think the waking world would be better with more of my kind, with more…immutable natures. It is one of the things I miss. And one of the things I love most about you, Ixchel.”

“You called me a pole-star,” she said slowly. “And _rogasha’ghi’lan_ … It is a lot of pressure.”

A breath escaped him—the ghost of a laugh. “Do you know _how_ diamonds are made, _‘ma’lath?”_

Ixchel did not deign to answer that. “I know you know how it feels, at least, Fen’Harel.”

He exhaled shortly through his nose. “In my wanderings, as well as in my life, I have watched many leaders rise and fall. Even victory can be a burden for a leader with a conscience, and a heart. Perhaps it is even worse.

He opened his eyes again quickly, as though he had caught her stray thought, as though recognizing that she recognized his words, that she was not hearing them for the first time. Or maybe that was her imagination, projecting onto his carefully blank face. “For every smallest glimpse I allow you of my long life, your eyes tell me you understand leagues more,” he said. “Paradoxically—you are so small, so young, yet everything I learn about _you_ only leaves me with more curiosity.”

He left the words hanging there to see what she would offer in return. An answer to the question: _how do you know so much?_ The tip of his nose brushed hers as he leaned closer, if only to look more deeply into her eyes. And the look in his eye became slightly more cautious.

He was waiting for her to incriminate herself.

Ixchel pressed her lips into a thin line. He could say what he wanted to say, ask what he wanted to ask. She was certain that, so close to her throat, with his chest pressed to her back, he could hear the sudden uptick in her pulse. She wouldn’t be surprised if he could _smell_ the unease coming off of her in that moment. But, she consoled herself, he could not read her mind. And she had won against him in Wicked Grace at least once. She could bluff him, if she needed to.

But he _had_ just said that he loved her: a peace offering of sorts. It would not do, to be so suspicious of her lover.

“Perhaps I don’t want to show you the wonder I have,” she said slowly, “for fear of seeming so young, so small, so inexperienced in comparison.”

“And yet I do not think that of you,” he replied. Then, after a short, watchful pause, he posited a rhetorical question to her: “Have you simply found so much in your own wanderings, I wonder?”

Ixchel allowed him a shallow nod. “I was blessed to have been born free of the Chantry and free of the Dalish—limited only by my imagination.” She gestured with an idle hand. “Today… Well...I realized what Cole was a while ago…and I have so often heard you speak with him with such understanding, such _experience,_ how could I not wonder? How could I not wonder, having learned so much about Elvhenan from _you?”_

She looked down at her hands. “I want to know so much, Solas. You will tell me, or you won’t, as much as you are ready to tell me, when you are ready. In this matter, with Cole, my supposition seems to have been correct. Some other ideas, as you say, are not. I _don’t_ know your regrets. But I have always _wanted_ to know you. And I have always known there was more than you allowed me to see,” she said, and that, at least, was honest—for it had been true before, as it was now.

“Hmm.” He rested his chin on her shoulder again. “And I, you,” he allowed. “So…may I?”

Ixchel stared at him, and all thought of bluffing was gone. He seemed a little surprised at her shock—well, that was how she interpreted the ever-so-slight crease between his brows. She was caught so off-guard at his earnest question that she answered it. “The world made me the way I am,” she said softly. “The world put the liar in my mind, to lead me astray. It was a painful process, Solas…and it has left me so afraid.”

She whetted her lips nervously. “And to survive the shadow in my mind, the thing that distorts everything around me—I separate myself from it, examine everything…and that very thing that allows me to survive, that mechanism, leaves me questioning everything.” She sighed. “Even who I am. Every action…even how I feel. All I know is that I love you, Solas, and _that_ is real.”

His face darkened with guilt and grief and pity, and she had to turn her head away for how much the look hurt her like a knife to the stomach. She looked back out over the river valley and tried to keep her breathing even. Her voice had started to shake, and she was embarrassed—because it was true. For all her foreknowledge, for all that she did and did not know of him, there was only one thing that was _certain:_ she did love him, more than she could ever describe.

Solas pressed even closer to her, then raised a hand to tuck her hair away from her ear. He kissed the side of her neck, her jaw, her cheek, to coax her back to him, and at last she relented. As she turned her head to accept his kiss, the arm he had around her waist stirred; he found the hand that held the Anchor and laced their fingers together, then drew it close, against her heart.

She let him kiss her—so gentle, so deep, so sweet that it _ached._ Caged by his body as she was, she surrendered over to him her worries, her doubts, her fears, and even the hope that, in the end, her love would be enough.

Ixchel found herself being lowered to the stone floor, Solas rolling on top of her. He cradled her face in his hands as he bowed over her, braced on his knees so that his straddling was not imposing, not more insistent than it was meant to be.

“You do know yourself,” he whispered against her lips. “You are deciding that every day. You will it to be true, and it is.” He kissed her forehead. “You leave reflections of yourself everywhere. Rainier. The Dalish. The _Empress_ of _Orlais._ Look, and you will be reminded.” He kissed her eyelids, wet as they were. “And in the darkness…not all who wander are lost. Not even you, _rogasha’ghi’lan.”_

-:-:-:-:-

That night, Solas showed her the moment he removed his vallaslin.

“We were her hunters, her watchers, her wolves,” he whispered as they watched him develop the spell in the dark of night, on a silent plain devoid of life. There were no watching stone wolves to be found; there were no others to help, to aide, as he clearly wrestled with guilt, and fear, and his convictions. There were only the moon and the stars to witness this first act of rebellion at its conception.

“Mythal loved her children, and she loved the People. They were _all_ her children. Thus she placed us among them all—to watch—in their temples, in their homes, across the land… We watched for injustice against the People, and we acted on her will.” He swallowed. “Mythal did not put her people under a geas like the others, but she still asked us to take her brands. It was an honor. It is not abuse if you ask,” he said, a weak sneer in his voice.

Ixchel reached up to press her hand against the side of his face; his cheek was cold in the night, and he leaned into her warm touch with a weary sigh. “In war, I led her armies: Pride, to motivate, to lead. But…it is impossible to be proud of turning everything you love to ash. The vallaslin was supposed to _stop_ such needless cruelty. It became only a means of control. I removed it before she could control me…yet I still wanted to serve her. I freed the slaves of the Evanuris from the chains that bound them to suffer—justice, for Mythal’s children. Even when she would not remove the vallaslin herself. Mythal _loved_ her children…but not enough to free them.”

“Or, perhaps, too much,” Ixchel offered quietly.

His jaw flexed against her hand. “Love should not _require_ love in return,” he responded. “Such is fear.”

 _“Love,”_ Ixchel said, _“is_ a terrifying thing.” He turned to kiss her palm and did not deny it. “You say you destroyed the Elvhen, Fen’Harel,” she said quietly, “but they destroyed themselves. It was their choice, their freedom to do so, and you gave that to them. It was not wrong.”

“I did not say it was.” A dark chuckle escaped him. “There are sometimes only terrible choices left. But fear should not prevent you from acting.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Have you learned my lesson, _da’len?”_

Ixchel laughed bitterly as she turned away from the scene. She buried her face in his chest. “Just that this was always going to hurt,” she said, and it was muffled against his shirt.

 _“Mala suledin nadas,”_ he replied. “At least, you are not alone.”

She sighed and completed what had become their call-and-response: “Neither are you, ‘ma’lath. I am not afraid of loving you."

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel gathered Cassandra, Solas, Thom, and Cullen at Morrigan’s eluvian. The witch herself activated the mirror and looked back at Ixchel. “Everyone grab hold of their elf?” she quipped.

Everyone looked deeply uncomfortable. Ixchel sighed. “How about the elves take hold of their humans?” she replied, and without ceremony put her hands on Thom and Cullen’s backs. “Let’s go.” She gave them a push through the eluvian and followed swiftly after.

Morrigan led them through the eluvian network back to the Hall of Uthenera. “I shall retreat to the chamber three eluvians back,” she said. “I will wait there until you are ready to return. Hopefully, the Marquise’s agents will not bother me there.”

“Thank you, Morrigan.”

Ixchel pushed Cullen and Thom through the eluvian and into the Ghislain estate, where she found Bull on watch. He seemed deeply distrustful of the eluvian, but he didn’t let it stop him from getting right to business.

“Ah, Sunshine. Just in time. We got a raven from some of Leliana’s scouts.”

“I’m nothing if not punctual,” Ixchel said blithely. “Got a location?”

The Qunari nodded. “Ready to rumble. Madame de Fer and Sparkler are out front with some of the skirmishers. Not a far trek, it seems.”

“Didn’t sound like it would be,” she responded. Solas and Cassandra stepped out of the eluvian behind her, and Ixchel wasted no time signaling Bull to lead them out of the grand estate. As they walked, Ixchel said, “Remember, everyone. No heroes today. No martyrs. We’re scattering them—anything else, we’d be lucky.”

She tried not to look at Cullen, though her words were almost entirely meant for him.

Vivienne handed them all dusty red cloaks to cover their shining armor. There was no trace of grief on her face; there was only duty in her tone as she instructed them on their stealthy approach. They would be on foot, following the Inquisition runners who would go short distances ahead to make sure their route was clear. They were certainly being watched by the Venatori, as Leliana had informed them, and that meant that regardless of whatever Calpernia had said, they could be attacked on either side.

Ixchel was at least heartened to see that the Temple of Dumat was not on fire as they approached.

“Back entrance?” Bull whispered.

“Storm the gate,” she said instead. “Show of confidence.”

“Right. ‘We know where you are, there’s no hiding.’”

Ixchel nodded and set her jaw. They were in sight of the gates now.

“Solas, Bull, Thom,” she said. “I want you to get as deep in this place as you possibly can. Make sure they can’t set off any explosions, can’t destroy any evidence. I plan on having as big an entrance as possible—try to draw them all out for you. See if you can get by in the rush.”

She tried to give Solas a look that said, _Do what you must._

“Cullen, Vivienne, Dorian, Cassandra—we’re doing this for the Templars. Taunt them with what they could be. With what honor their brothers and sisters have found as Templars in the Inquisition.”

She looked around again under her hood. “And remember. _No one._ Fights. Samson.”


	90. Under Her Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/19/20

A thick barrier settled over her when Bull slammed open the gate. The heavy metal _crashed_ against the stone wall of the entrance. The Templars scattered around the courtyard scattered at the noise, running for armor and weapons—and running toward her.

Ixchel had worn her toughest, heaviest armor. She was a walking bastion, a bulwark—the Knights did not threaten her with their swords, and Vivienne, Cullen, and Cassandra intercepted as many Shrieks as they could. Where they could see the faces of Templars, where they recognized voices amid the bestial roaring, they were calling out names, pleading with the Templars to surrender.

Ixchel could see the wave of motion ripple through the camps as the bulk of the Templar forces ran toward the Inquisition troops, exactly as she had hoped. She plowed on, raising her two-handed, glowing sword to block incoming blows, but her eyes were on the two hulking figures who had emerged at the back of the temple: a Behemoth, and Samson.

“General Samson!” Ixchel shouted. “You left before I could properly introduce myself. I am Ixchel Lavellan, Shepherd of the Order of Templars, Champion of the Downtrodden! Your brothers and sisters in arms deserve to be free of the leash of the Chantry—free of the poison of lyrium—free to live the honorable lives as the Knights and Protectors I know you are!”

Her voice was splintering from how loudly she had to roar to be heard over the sounds of the battle around her. Samson rocked cockily on his heels as he went to cross his arms, smirking at her.

“Death need not be the answer for your people! If you care for them as I know you do, _stand down!”_

“It’s the same lie they’ve heard before, bitch!” he called back. “Make them believe their pain has a purpose, just like the Chantry does, in your _Chantry_ Inquisition?”

“The world is pain!” Ixchel roared. “The least we can do is stop putting more into it.”

Solas, Bull, and Thom were at her side. She could feel the tingle of Solas’s magic pulling on Veil. This time, instead of a pinprick, he opened a roaring hole. Her volley of words with Samson had left him unsuspecting and off-balance; the the pull of the rift dragged Samson and the Behemoth forward, away from the door. The Behemoth, being more massive, was dragged a little behind Samson—and tipped forward, catching the general on the way down. They tumbled down the stairs toward Ixchel and left the doorway behind them clear.

 _“Dareth,”_ Ixchel told Solas quickly. “Go!”

Solas led the way, Fade-stepping past the mess of Samson and Behemoth and darting through the doorway they had blocked. Bull and Thom were swift to follow without question, which left Ixchel alone to face Samson beneath the swiftly-dwindling rift.

Samson caught himself at last and stood tall. He threw back his shoulders, and his red lyrium armor began to glow. _“This_ is the power the Chantry tried to lock away!” he shouted, and she could feel the effect of his words on his loyal men around him. Their blows hit harder. Their shouts grew more impassioned. “ _This_ is the power of a Red Templar!”

Ixchel took one last, steadying breath.

As Samson drew Certainty and the Behemoth took aim at her, Ixchel dove forward. She deactivated the great sword as she went to ease her path, and she popped up on her feet behind the slow-moving monstrosity. Thus began Ixchel’s game in earnest.

It was a dangerous one.

She tried to keep Samson and the Behemoth as far away from her skirmishers as possible, occupied as they were with the Red Templars. As much as Samson could fuel himself with rage and red lyrium alone, there had to be limits to his stamina—and there certainly were limits to how long his forces could hold out. If she had brought along knights to aide her, it would have been a different story, but Leliana’s scouts knew they were not meant to wipe out the Templar force. They were here to harass. To wear down. To drive out.

Dorian and Vivienne covered as many of her soldiers as they could. The Templars had to spend energy and thought to dispelling their barriers, which left the scouts themselves free to attack their distracted enemies. Cullen and Cassandra taunted and engaged the bigger targets. But they all kept an eye on Ixchel’s dance with Samson on the heights at the far end of the temple.

Ixchel was one eye-mind-body unit as she dodged and ducked and rolled. When it seemed that maybe Samson was about to catch on that she was simply harassing him, she activated her great sword again and summoned all of her strength and speed to charge in and engage him.

“Your people are fearless, Samson!” she called. “The Chantry never knew what it had!”

It was just like fighting the Hand of Korth: get so close that the enemy might trip over her, that their blades were useless, and absorb whatever blows they did manage to land. One of the beautiful things about the chromatic great sword was that she could deactivate it at will. When she twirled and ducked and needed to _move_ , there was no weight to unbalance her.

She carved into his armor with all her strength, even though she knew it was a futile endeavor—but the show was convincing enough.

After an interminable slog of in-out fighting in such a way, Ixchel ducked back one more time and let Samson have his space. His Behemoth had fallen. All around them, his Knights were haggard and weary.

“We can do this as long as we must, Samson!” Ixchel spat. “Take your people and flee, or surrender!”

Sweat ran in rivulets down his face, and his bloodshot eyes communicated his exhaustion and disbelief as he looked around at the battlefield. His eyes strayed to the inner temple.

He swallowed. “This isn’t over,” he said.

He half-turned to her, then stood tall. “This isn’t over!” he roared across the courtyard. “The shrine is theirs, but we will _never_ be! Red Templars! Go!”

The Inquisition forces let their opponents flee—in severely reduced numbers. The number of injured and staggered combatants was impressive, but Ixchel did not stop to count. Samson had taken off at a run for temple door, and she needed to make sure that he didn’t run into Solas and Bull and Thom with their backs turned.

She saw a brown shape dart out from the courtyard, racing toward the hulking Templar general: Cullen, his cloak streaming behind him, his shield dented into a misshapen hunk on his arm.

“Stand down, Cullen!” she shouted.

He paid no heed. Samson had disappeared inside, and Cullen followed swiftly after.

Ixchel roared in frustration and set off after them.

Inside she found less carnage than she had expected. It seemed the bulk of the Red Templars had been outside in the courtyard when they entered. Giant crystals of red lyrium, however, were everywhere. Ixchel had to wonder how many had been Behemoths not long ago, now reduced to a Blighted mineral for the rest of time.

The song, of course—she had heard it on the approach, even far outside the shrine’s walls. But in here it echoed as though it wanted to fill the silence left in the Old God’s wake. It sang like the sweetest chime, and the shrillest steel, and it sang to _her._

To that thing in her soul that glued her together at the seams.

To that thing that was more than she had ever been before.

She staggered.

“Maddox!” Samson was roaring. _“Maddox!”_

Someone—Solas, she felt the magic—had erected a barrier between the main shrine and the innermost sanctum where Ixchel knew Maddox kept his workplace. Samson bareled into the barrier and was immediately repelled. He swung his sword into it, but it was likewise useless, even with its red lyrium infusion.

Ixchel’s Commander was charging, blade at the ready, for Samson’s back.

“Cullen, _stand down!”_ Ixchel screamed.

It was like time itself stopped to let the echoes of her voice dance through the temple walls. As her shrill voice reverberated across the walls, Ixchel saw Samson’s rage snap into place. She saw his grip change on Certainty. She saw the muscles of his leg, his shoulder, coil—

Cullen wheeled to a halt mere inches out of Samson’s range as the Red Templar general swung his blade out to bisect the Inquisition’s Commander.

The tip of Certainty shrieked through the air, but did not connect with steel. Ixchel nearly tripped as she urged herself faster. For all she had demanded of him just a moment before, Cullen could not stand down now. He had fallen into Samson’s vortex. A confrontation was inevitable.

Ixchel dove low to knock Cullen’s legs out from under him. They went flying across the floor and crashed into a wall, but at least they were out from under Samson’s spinning blade for a moment. Ixchel did not even pause to glare at Cullen. The situation had suddenly become desperate.

Ixchel whirled on all fours like an animal to face the oncoming whirlwind of steel and red lyrium. She reached within her to answer the call of that Blighted stuff, and the Anchor swelled in response.

At the sight of the green flare of magic, Samson slowed to an abrupt halt. He bared his teeth at her.

“Maddox will be safe,” she told him. She straightened up from her crouch and met Samson’s eyes. “There is a new world dawning, but you don’t need to die for it.” She lowered her arm. “There is a cure for Tranquility, Samson.”

The shrine to Silence knew silence once again. It filled the space like a poison gas, a heavy blanket across all their shoulders.

Samson shook his head slowly. In the silence, he shook his head, and he turned away from her to look past the rippling barrier of magic that separated him from Maddox. Ixchel hoped that the Tranquil mage was still alive in there.

“No new world will be worth it, if there will still be mages and Templars,” he said at last. He hooked his sword on his back once more. He shook his head again and did not look at her as he walked away.

“You’re just going to let him go?”

Ixchel rounded on Cullen and shoved him back down to the ground before he could move to stand. “I never promised you I wouldn’t,” she said fiercely. “But you promised me—”

“Oh, I promised you I wouldn’t kill him on sight!” Cullen shot back. “I promised you I would not face him alone, and I did not break that vow, Ixchel, did I?”

She gestured at him furiously. “And I said no one fights him! _I_ wasn’t even fighting with him, really! If he had killed you, I could have done _nothing!”_ She lashed out at him with the pommel of her sword and met the battered steel of his shield. “We are about to launch a full-scale assault against the Venatori and you would so rashly deprive me of the leader of my armies?!”

He was scrambling back from her along the ground. She kicked away his shield.

“Ixchel—” he said testily.

“Ixchel!”

Vivienne’s sharp voice cut through the ringing in Ixchel’s ears, and she froze. The young warrior stood, shaking with rage and leftover adrenaline, over the prone Commander. He looked up at her bitterly, and she realized, slowly, that the circles beneath his eyes were deeper than ever, black bruises beneath the most haunted gaze. Seeing his exhaustion made her realize her own. She was drenched with sweat, and her muscles and lungs burned. It had been a long, pitched battle, and sometimes holding back was even more work than letting the blood lust take over.

Dorian, Vivienne, and Cassandra approached swiftly. “This is a victory, let there be no doubt,” Vivienne said coolly. “We scattered them; that was the goal, and we have plenty of captives and turncoats to take in. Let that be enough, for the both of you.”

Ixchel took a deep breath and stalked over to the barrier between them and Maddox. It was dispelled by the time she reached it. Inside the inner sanctum, Solas stood over the Tranquil’s workbench, hand on his staff. He barely looked up when Ixchel came in.

“He tried to kill himself as soon as he saw us enter,” he said. “I suspect he will continue trying to do so.” He fingered an implement on the desktop. “It was wise…of him, and of you, Inquisitor. These are masterwork tools, and I imagine he holds many secrets.”

The whole corner of the chamber smelled sweetly of evaporated lyrium—and the faint bitter smell of blightcap essence. She could see a vial of the dry stuff shattered on the ground, and her breath caught in her throat.

Solas met her eyes with concern, but she did not reach for him, nor he for her. “His name is Maddox,” Ixchel said. She came to his side and found Maddox sprawled on the ground. The Tranquil was bruised and had a trickle of blood across his throat, but he was unconscious.

Bull and Thom came up from a set of stairs. “You’ll want to see this,” Bull said. Thom’s eyes were wide.

Ixchel and Solas looked at each other, concern mounting. “Cassandra, Cullen, stay here,” she said. “Make sure Maddox doesn’t hurt himself.”

Ixchel followed her other companions down the stairs into a series of vaults. The honeycomb tiles that were the ancient Tevene aesthetic whispered with sand beneath her feet, and Vivienne’s boots slid through the dust carefully.

They reached a doorway. A small red lyrium crystal was growing out of the side of the frame, at a height where it seemed natural for someone to touch with their hand as they passed through. Bull took Ixchel by the shoulders and pushed her slowly toward it.

“You hear it?” he muttered.

Ixchel opened her mouth to say, “Hear what?” but she took one more step and she _did_ hear it: Corypheus’s voice, pensive, quiet, bleak.

_Awake, in a world twisted into perversion and ruin. Awake, only to discover the light of Wisdom has gone black…_

Solas approached as well, and his eyes narrowed as he heard the voice as well. “His connection to the red lyrium is so strong, it leaves the impression of sentience,” he murmured.

“Are there more of these?” Dorian asked. “Imagine what we might discover!”

“There’s more of them,” Thom confirmed, with distaste.

They led her, Vivienne, Dorian, and Solas to the ones they had discovered thus far. Ixchel tried to ignore the few Red Templar bodies that their exploration had left behind, and she tried not to shiver too much as Corypheus’s voice whispered into her mind like a sick harony with the song of the red lyrium.

_I recited the old verses. How easily they come, even after so long a slumber. Yet still I do not feel the presence of Dumat—hear no whispers, no commands. Silence has fallen._

_Did the others never return from the Black City? If the others have not returned, they are lost. I am alone in my glory._

Dorian and Solas remarked upon the findings as they went, but Ixchel barely heard them. She was afraid that Corypheus might mention the orb of Fen’Harel, implicate Solas. She was afraid she’d find out that his plans had changed terribly and that everything she had done to anticipate him had gone to waste.

But they seemed merely to be the ruminations of a time-displaced Magister.

_There is no record even of our names! We are villified by legend. They spit on our deeds and claim we brought darkness into the world. We discovered the darkness. We claimed it as our own, let it permeat our being…_

_How does this age stand such desolation? They sing to a “Maker” who answers no prayers. Once I have ascended, I will be their answer. I will be their light._

_A slave girl who burned with potential, ignored by all save myself. Her master did not see it. No one saw it. The world has gone craven and blind._

_The Anchor is gone, taken by an elf mewling about hope. I shall descend on this Haven with fire and fury and take it back. Let us see what manner of “Herald” this age has bred!_

_Calpernia prepares to set foot in the place where regret dwells. To bring it into the light. She cannot know what must be done. Cannot understand. In time, she will forgive._

“And there’s one more thing,” Bull said, when they’d found the last crystal. He led her ever deeper into the crumbling vaults beneath the shrine. There was another magical barrier, which Solas dispelled with a wave of his hand. And then they stepped in to the terrible chamber beyond.

Even through the barrier, she had seen the lone figure hunched at the very center. They were surrounded by a half-globe of rippling magic so pure nad strong it was like a living liquid. With the barrier gone, Ixchel could now hear the figure speaking in the voice of an agonized madman:

“The light… Light the…the burner. Add a teaspoon of cinnabar…” The figure’s head turned upward, and his hood fell back to reveal an old, shriveled man. “‘He came down in fire and splendor’—chapter nine, verse one.”

“The barrier holding him is impressive,” Solas remarked. “He is no threat to us, if he ever was.”

Ixchel approached. “Who are you?”

The old man looked up with sagging jowls, which sagged even further with sorrow. “Magister Erasthenes am I. A scholar of Tevinter. To Corypheus I am bound, to answer every question—gaah!” The barrier lit up with red magics that seemed to cause him pain, though Ixchel could not discern the reason. “For Calpernia’s sake, I am lost,” the man sobbed.

“You were her master,” Ixchel said coldly. “Did Corypheus do this to punish you? For her sake?”

The old man coughed and sobbed raggedly. “She knows not.” He was shocked again. “I am a ruin, the jeweled husk when the butterfly leaves. I was the greatest scholar of the Old Gods in Minrathous—no, in the Imperium.”

Dorian sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “He’s right,” he murmured. “If this is truly him.”

“One night, _he_ came to my door. For my relics, I thought. My writings and runes…but instead my slave went to his side. Calpernia. To become the Vessel, and save Tevinter.”

Ixchel’s jaw clenched.

“If Calpernia’s the Vessel, what are the contents?” Vivienne mused darkly.

“I do not know—unh! Power, it must be some sort of power!” Erasthenes said amid the swell of pain. Vivienne winced. “Power, like Urthemiel’s, arisen in flame…”

Ixchel felt her blood run with ice. She opened her mouth to speak, but she couldn’t. What did he mean, power like Urthemiel’s?

She turned abruptly. Kieran was a vessel of a kind, wasn’t he?

But what Kieran held within him was not what the Well of Sorrows contained, as far as she knew. Well—no. That wasn’t true. It contained the memories of a thousand thousand servants of Mythal. How did _she_ know it did not _contain_ the servants of Mythal?

“Corypheus crafts a Vessel for the power he seeks. But he does not need his Vessel to have free will. About her these same chains will fall. Iron, to cage lightning.”

Ixchel felt Solas’s attention fall upon her, though he did not seem to move. She tightened her grip on the chromatic great sword. _Is Calpernia_ meant _to possess the Well of Sorrows? Or is she meant to possess whatever power Corypheus finds in the Black City?_ Ixchel wondered.

She would need Solas to answer that for her.

“Is that why Calpernia joined Corypheus?” Thom wondered aloud. “To save your empire?”

“Yes. She seeks a leader—Corypheus—to shape Tevinter’s rebirth. She would raise up the slaves, as she was raised. Bring a new order, with a heart of steel.” Erasthenes coughed. “She could do it!” he insisted. “If she were not the Vessel… Yoked like a Qunari mage, a saarebas, a circumscribed sycophant. If she found out… Hers is a cold rage, to rival the wrath of Corypheus. Unnh!” He bowed over his knees, clutching his chest as though his heart pained him. “This chain has broken me, friend. No wings can raise my mind. Please… Breach the Circle. Its wards _will_ trigger. I will be dust and light. Free.”

“Or it will kill us,” Cassandra said, joining them. “Corypheus is not above placing such a trap.” She caught Ixchel’s troubled gaze. “Maddox is in good hands. He is restrained and resting.”

Ixchel nodded.

“Corypheus’s Circle will hold its destruction within. Tight, tight. No fear. Only freedom!” Erasthenes insisted.

Ixchel bowed her head. “Now that we have done the hard work, Calpernia’s people will come snoop in the ashes,” she said. “She was your slave, Magister. Your freedom is not mine to give. It is hers to see what will be done with you.”

“We could question him,” Vivienne said. “Who knows what _he_ might know about your greatest enemy.”

“We will use what we have,” Ixchel said. “We already have more than we did. It was already a victory, as you said.”

She returned to the surface and found Cullen still kneeling on the ground beside Maddox’s bench. He had a hand over his face. “He would throw his life away for Samson? Why?” he breathed.

“For all the reasons they were saying, Cullen.”

“I know—I know!” A ragged exhale became a low, exhausted roar. He slammed his fist into the ground. “If I hadn’t left Kirkwall… The Templars…”

Ixchel’s brow cleared. “Oh, so this has nothing to do with Samson, after all,” she observed aloud. “This is all your guilt. Well, stop that. The world is on fire, it was on fire, it will always be on fire. You could have tried to put out the fire in Kirkwall, or you could have tried to put out the fire at the Conclave, or you could have run away and wallowed.” She extended her hand for him. “You’re trying. That’s what matters.”

Cullen took her hand and rose to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “For yelling. You scared me.”

“I know,” he said shortly. He picked up his shield, then dropped it again with a frustrated sigh. “Fuck!”

“Alright, Cullen,” Bull interrupted. “If you need to hit something, let’s take it out back. You seem like you need to hit something.” He clapped a hand on Ixchel’s shoulder. “Go see what else our people can find. Sounds like a goldmine for Red’s spies and gossip mongers.” Ixchel sighed. His grip on her shoulder tightened. “All things considered, that _was_ a victory, Sunshine.”

She nodded. She did not look at Cullen as she pulled away from Bull and went to where Solas waited for her by the door.

She had more questions than answers. But by now, she had come to believe that sometimes that was better than thinking she knew anything at all.


	91. Paper & Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paper & Steel is a Maddox & Samson centric short story you can read on the bioware blog, and you should :)
> 
> 12/19/20

Solas used his staff as a walking stick as he walked Ixchel through the temple. Her mind was racing with questions, and logistics, and plans and fears. “We should speak later, _‘ma’lath,”_ she rasped. Her throat crackled and ached from shouting. “It may be late.”

“I will await it, then,” he said. “In the meantime, I believe Dorian and I may be able to gain some insights into this Old God cult.”

He turned to leave, but she caught his elbow. He stopped obediently and looked down at her. With one searching look, he seemed to immediately identify what she needed, and he leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Strength, Champion,” he said against her heated skin.

She took a deep breath and nodded.

Solas and Dorian split off together to study and search out what magic they could. Cassandra accompanied Ixchel to coordinate the transfer of their new Red Templar prisoners. She could not take advantage of the Ghislain estate to house them, but she was not willing to forcibly march the injured and addicted Templars to the nearest port, either. She had not anticipated having so many prisoners, and though she had access to carts and guards thanks to a partnership with the Orlesian authorities, she was going to be stretched thin both maintaining control of them and transporting them as she needed to. Her people were soldiers, but they weren’t the force she had in mind for managing a prison camp full of super powered human knights.

Ixchel resolved that they would all stay in the camp in the courtyard that night—her and her inner circle, with the exception of Vivienne and a handful of her scouts. They, instead, would be taking a lot of the evidence with them back to the estate and through the eluvian to Skyhold.

So Ixchel spent the rest of the evening helping Vivienne get everything all together. When at last she watched Vivienne lead a caravan out of the temple, Ixchel turned right back into the camp and went to her prisoners

Ixchel carried blankets with her and had Cassandra bring jugs of water behind her. She made her way straight to the most monstrous of the Red Templars. She could feel the eyes of the entire camp on her as she did, but she did her absolute best not to perform—and not to be so blase that it went the other way.

Their breaths came wet and rasping through throats choked by lyrium and exertion.

“I know the lyrium may take some of you, one way or another, sooner or later,” she said, “but I will do my best to make sure you aren’t mistreated in the meantime. Are any of you cold?”

They were silent, staring at her with their cinnabar-glazed eyes. Ixchel did not let herself be discouraged, and she set a blanket down between every two Templars. Cassandra followed, pouring cups of water and placing them in front of the prisoners. Ixchel finally sat in their midst and lay her hands on her knees, palms up and empty. She looked into their faces and saw their hatred, their mistrust—and a lot of pain. Some of them, their withdrawals had already begun. Some of them, their consumption had only recently taken hold.

She remembered the nameless Templar who had wanted to give his daughter a better world, and then turned red inside.

“My name is Ixchel,” she said. “You, of all people, know that I was not touched by Andraste. You of all people know that I was a mistake.” She offered them the slightest one-sided smirk. “I stepped in the way of the Elder One’s ritual because I wanted to protect the Divine—and that choice has marked me for death ever after. Maybe you might feel the same.”

Still no Templars engaged with her, except to stare.

“Regardless—I know that neither the Elder One, nor Andraste, nor any mortal creature is responsible for this mark in my hand. Thus I refuse to let the Elder One, or the Empress, or the Chantry, tell me what is right in this world, and what to think,” Ixchel continued. “I would prefer to hear it from you. What do you fight for? What do you die for? If anything was possible, what would you wish for yourselves and your families?”

She looked at Cassandra who had sat beside her. “Cassandra, and Knight-Captain Cullen, have been trying to free Templars from the lyrium leash, if that is what they desire. Prove it’s possible. She has demonstrated that she listens, and will listen.”

Cassandra nodded shortly. “You were meant to be the sea wall between the world and its greatest fears—the mages. Templars could never admit anything that could be perceived as weakness…and the Order tossed you out as soon as you were not useful anymore.” Cassandra’s nostrils flared. “It was wrong. In all my years as a Seeker, I did what I was told. But now I see that I should never have ceded my conscience to the Chantry alone. I was wrong to let others tell me what is wrong, when the suffering was plain for my eyes to see.”

“You should not have to die to make the world see,” Ixchel said. “Let us be the first to open our eyes. We will not be the last.”

-:-:-:-:-

They didn’t get very far at all with the Red Templars. One or two grunted and finally wrapped a blanket around themselves, but not one of them spoke. She and Cassandra eventually left them in peace; they found that they were emotionally taxed even after such a vain attempt, and they went to walk around the outer wall of the Temple together in silence.

On their second lap around the ruin, Ixchel sighed. “Well, that actually went better than I expected,” she said.

Cassandra snorted. “Yes. The poor monstrosities didn’t explode in a cloud of lyrium shards to kill us for just looking at them.”

“Exactly,” Ixchel agreed.

The Seeker sighed and clasped her hands behind her back. “The Commander…” She cleared her throat. “The Commander has not asked me to relieve him of his duties—and I would not suggest it,” she said quickly, as Ixchel’s head fell. “But I fear that this confrontation and its outcome have shaken him prior to what you say may be a great siege. We need him to be the best he can be. The best _we_ know he can be.”

Ixchel nodded. “I don’t know if I’m the one to talk to him,” she said quietly.

“No,” Cassandra confirmed. “It is as you observed: in the end, it is his guilt about the Circles, and his guilt about himself, that has convinced him of his lack of worth in there here-and-now.”

Ixchel bit her lip. “Do you think Varric—”

“It is, and always will be, the mages he failed,” Cassandra said. “In failing _them,_ he failed the Templars, to lead by example. And then he left them all behind. No…Hawke was never in a Circle. I do not think he would be the one.”

Ixchel tucked her hands under her armpits. “Anders.”

“Anders, and Maddox, and Samson,” Cassandra listed off.

“Well, shit.” Ixchel sighed. “I know there are _plenty_ of people who’d love to know where Anders is right now.”

“And you let Samson escape.”

“And Maddox…”

Cassandra’s head fell to the side. “Yes.”

Ixchel tightened her arms.

“I will try to speak with him,” said the Seeker gently. “But I thought I should also speak to _you._ In many ways, this is your first test, Inquisitor. You command an army of thousands. It is not your moral code alone that holds Orlais in check. Now, they will see the might of our military. They will see the lengths we go to, to protect our allies—and thwart our foes.”

“Yes, thank you for handing me this burden, Seeker,” Ixchel said wryly. “Elf bastard half your age who fell out of the Fade. Great choice, if I do say so myself.”

 _“I_ say so,” Cassandra responded without a trace of humor. “I also say…that you are my friend. And I am sorry. I would like to do what I can to help you in this. Be it delegation, punching someone…or even…” She gave an aggrieved sigh. “Even wearing a _dress.”_

Ixchel laughed out loud. “Oh, I wish it were so simple.”

The two women laughed with each other bitterly in the dark. “You are doing very well, Inquisitor. But I fear you, like Cullen, may be putting too much pressure on yourself. As tempting as it is to think you might control so much, with the power you wield, after all your victories…” Cassandra shook her head. “We can only control ourselves, and how we react to the world, and hope that we are guided by something more true than what we think we know. The Light of the Maker…”

Ixchel sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Her heart had fallen from her ribs to her feet, and she stopped walking. She could not raise her head; everything about her felt heavy as she recalled the losses of Adamant, as she thought of all the burdens she wished she could ask her friends to help her carry. But what had happened with Cullen just proved what she had already been convinced of: they were dealing with their own shit.

Cassandra surprised her by putting an arm around her shoulders. After a moment of tension, Ixchel allowed herself to rest her head on Cassandra’s shoulder. “Thanks, Cass,” she sighed. “I will have things to delegate in the Western Approach. For now… Let’s just get out of here alive, with our prisoners alive.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel and Cassandra returned to camp and found Cullen sitting by the fire—with Maddox.

The women stopped as soon as they noticed, still a fair distance away, and they watched as Maddox spoke in an even, smooth stream of words that seemed to weigh heavily on Cullen’s shoulders. Cassandra tightened her grip on Ixchel’s shoulders.

“We should remember,” Cassandra said quietly, “that he _is_ trying to heal on his own. He was the one who started this journey for himself, after all.”

 _He knew to leave Kirkwall, for his own good,_ Ixchel agreed, though she did not speak. She hoped that he found healing, speaking to the Tranquil mage.

She hoped for it to be mutual, but she did not know if that were possible.

Ixchel found Dorian next. He was peering upward at the metal dragon head carved into it. “You know,” he said as she and Cassandra returned, “the patterns carved into these fixtures are meant to warp the Fade—twist it so tight that it bursts, right there…in the mouth.”

He tapped a finger against his lips. “I imagine it would pull demons through. If they were primed, at least. What a good security system.”

Ixchel leaned against the wall beside him. “Alright, archivist. Let’s hear it.”

“Erasthenes supposed Corypheuss was looking for ‘power like Urthemiel’s,’” Dorian began. “Dumat, Zazikel, Toth, Andoral—and Urthemiel. There are only two left. But they are _here,_ are they not? Slumbering below ground.”

Dorian looked down at her. “It makes me uneasy to think of sleeping here, really.”

Ixchel shrugged. “Dumat didn’t even speak to his own high priest anymore, Dorian. I don’t think we have anything to fear of this place.”

He hummed contemplatively. “I do not know how lucidly you dream in the Fade, my darling, but the Black City… It is _ever_ present. Every direction. No escaping it. We know it _was_ once golden, yet Corypheus says they _discovered_ darkness there. And what does he even mean, darkness? Does he mean the Blight, or something else?”

“Have you been to Blighted lands?” Ixchel asked. “It’s all black.”

“So then what blackened it?” he pressed. “If not the Magisters, then—then—”

“You know what’s always bothered me about this Maker shit—excuse me, Dorian.” She paused, reassessed. “Elvhenan was around for thousands of years before the humans arrived. Not only did they not worship the Maker—they never mention _not_ worshipping him. There are plenty of stories now from cults who reject the cult of the Maker as a choice, as dogma. But _it wasn’t a choice for them._ As though there were no signs. And yet—” she waved a hand “the Black City is an inescapable sight in the Fade. Isn’t it _strange_ that these ancient, powerful Elvhen dreamers had no curiosity for it? Left no trace of it? Never mentioned it?”

Dorian shook his head slowly. “There are texts that claim the elves worshipped a Maker-like figure,” he countered.

“Yes, but they are all reaching, modern treatises—looking for code and scraps and clues hidden away like puzzles. Yet we know their depictions of their gods, made by their own hands. We see their ancient graffiti and frescoes. Those are not so coded. And yet...” She held out her hands. “No Golden City.”

“Theological arguments aside—they also have no mention of a _Black City_ , either,” Dorian said.

She shrugged. “I’m just saying. The Elves didn’t have a Maker, or a Golden City. The Old Gods say it was theirs. And the Chantry says the Old Gods lied. But we have a living priest of an Old God who went to find the Golden City and claims it was already Black.” Ixchel scanned the camp with her eyes. “They discovered the Blight there. So what came first…? The Old Gods, or the Blight disease magic whatever?”

“Or are they one and the same,” Dorian supposed, face twisting with the foul taste of his words. “Oh, I don’t like that. But ‘power like Urthemiel’s’…”

“There’s something else we’re missing, I agree,” Ixchel said.

Dorian let loose a soft stream of Tevene curses. “I suppose if I haven’t found answers here, I’ll just have to wait to get back in a library. After this siege in the sands you have planned.”

“If we can save enough senior Wardens, they might have some ideas, too,” Ixchel pointed out.

“All the more reason to hurry, then.”

-:-:-:-:-

“I do not know your regrets,” she said softly, “or where they dwell.”

Ixchel and Solas were walking the maze in Arlathan, but it was dark now; the hedges rose high up above them to block out all the light, and the sight of the Black City.

Solas smiled ruefully—a bright flash in the dark. His shoulder brushed hers, but he did not answer.

“Everything you did, everything you _do_ is for the People,” Ixchel said. “But you raised the Veil to seal the _Evanuris_ away.”

They turned a corner and found a dead end, but Solas pressed forward and the leaves of the last wall melted away into wind chimes for them to walk through. As always—he had this place memorized, with all its tricks.

“What is the one thing from the waking world that ended up in the Fade?” Ixchel continued. “The Black City. And the Magisters who breached it with half the lyrium of Ancient Tevinter and a thousand slave’s blood.”

“Whence they discovered the darkness,” Solas murmured. “They claim.”

“Let it permeate their being,” she added. She raised an eyebrow at him, sidelong. “Andruil’s armor of the Void.”

Solas simply dipped his chin.

“What is Calpernia meant to be the Vessel for?” Ixchel asked directly. “What is in the Black City?”

“The Evanuris,” Solas said, “and the Blight.”

“What is the Maker?” Solas laughed out loud—a barking laugh that descended into a chuckle fairly quickly, and was not amusing to her. “I had this conversation with Dorian,” she bemoaned. “What comes first: the Golden City, or was it Black? The Old Gods who claimed it was was theirs, or the Maker who says they lied? The Old Gods become Blighted and turn into Archdemons. The Chantry says that’s punishment for them sending the Magisters to go fuck with the Golden City.”

“I do not know the answer,” Solas said. When she raised her eyebrow at him with a sidelong look, he shook his head. “I mean to what Corypheus seeks. If he believes he can remove the Blight from the world…” He continued shaking his head, clicking his tongue behind his teeth. “No, no, no.”

“It would not be unlike him to reach beyond himself,” she said.

“He wants to rule as a god, Ixchel,” he reminded her. “One must be alive for that.” His lips pressed into a thin line that quirked up in one corner. “One needn’t be alive to return to a time before the Blight. But then, one cannot rule as a god.”

Ixchel was quiet, eyes on the heavens as they roamed—as her thoughts roamed. “Well, if it’s so much trouble to walk in the Fade as he wishes, I suppose _that_ can’t be the place Calpernia is preparing to venture,” she said.

“I do not know ‘where regret dwells.’ I suspect, like most things these Magisters attempt, it is an ignorant misinterpretation of something of the People.” They reached a more open circuit of the maze—the labyrinth here was all open fountains, channels and hopping stones and thin, winding walkways. Solas took her hand to help her navigate it. “I do not know what the Archdemons are,” Solas admitted eventually. “These ‘Old Gods.’ They are not obviously remnants of my time, and they are not obvious consequences of my failures… But if they claimed the Black City was their own…if they whispered to these Magisters to open the city, to claim their power…”

Ixchel tugged on his hand to stop him. They stood on two opposite stepping stones, in the middle of a wide pool in which spirits and material fish swam.

“Solas,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut. “We’re so close to something.”

Solas stepped in to the water so that he could stand directly in front of her. It was fairly deep, and his head only came up to her chest, so he wrapped his arms around her waist and looked up at her patiently. Ixchel stood with her eyes still closed and traced the lines of his face with her fingertips; she followed the sharp lines of his cheekbones up to the start of his pointed ears, then back down to the corner of his jaw.

“It’s the immortality,” she said at last. “The Blights, the Archdemons, they didn’t happen until the Magisters opened the Black City. And the Archdemons… Their souls can _move_ … The Blight can’t be what gives them their souls, can it? Unless it can?”

Solas shook his head slowly. “I suspect you are close,” he agreed. “But I do not know.”

“Oh, you don't know, _hahren?_ Are you _proud_ of your humility?" she teased. She bent forward to kiss him.

“I am proud of _you_ ,” he said simply. “I do not know how wise it was, in the long run, to allow Samson to go free. I understand you did not believe we could prevail against him. But regardless…it was a noble thing, to speak to him as you did, and to let him choose his fate.”

Reminded of Samson, reminded of Cullen, reminded of Adamant—thus the unease slipped back into her stomach.

“I should kill Erasthenes,” she murmured.

Solas narrowed his eyes up at her. His gaze glittered darkly as he subjected her to his scrutiny.

“Retribution _necessarily_ does not allow reparation,” she explained. “Vengeance is not justice. Cruelty is cruelty—and I do not know what Calpernia will choose. I know that he has suffered enough, and he has no hope for change, and he should be allowed to rest in death.”

Solas’s hands slipped up her bare back to press flat against her shoulder blades, warming her, holding her like a fragile thing. His critical eye remained, but perhaps it was turned more inward than before. “Trust,” he said. “All trust is foolish, and by necessity…the act of trust leaves fear in its wake. But it is what is necessary, for freedom to reign...for hope to grow...”

Ixchel stared down at him and felt like her heart was made of lead in her chest. She lowered herself to sit on the stepping stone, her legs dangling in the water, and she wrapped her arms around him in return. She buried her face in his shoulder and bit her tongue so that she would not allow the truth to escape her.

It seemed their conversation from the Fade just the night previous had continued to haunt her.

She was not afraid of loving him, that much was true.

She was afraid, even now, of trusting him.


	92. Truth to Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/20/20

Cullen still seemed to be avoiding her, but Ixchel did not think to interrupt him anyway; after whatever conversation he had with Maddox, he went to speak with the Red Templars. She did not know if he had any success—but when it came time to bed down, he had slept among them.

In the morning, the Red Templars had not grown any chattier, but thankfully they were not being rowdy, either. Inquisition reinforcements arrived by the afternoon, and after spending another hour or so organizing her forces, Ixchel and her party returned to the Ghislain estate.

Solas led her party through the eluvian first, while Ixchel remained behind to speak with Vivienne. The Enchantress was not dressed in armor but rather a fine black mourning outfit.

“I will transport the eluvian with me back to Skyhold,” Vivienne said. “It will allow me the time to handle the last of Bastien’s affairs…”

“I would give you whatever time you need, Vivienne. Don’t worry.” Ixchel offered her a small smile. “I’m glad to have you watching the eluvian, after all. We fear it is one of the things Corypheus seeks.”

Vivenne nodded slowly. Ixchel could never imagine the woman as sickly or tired, but there was less sharp of a look in Vivienne’s eye than usual. “It is clear that the events to come weigh on you heavily, my dear. But you were a Champion before you ever were Inquisitor. I have the utmost faith in your ability to lead on the battlefield, and to protect and defend.” She lay an elegant hand on Ixchel’s arm. “If you were trained half as well as a Champion as you were trained in the Game… Do not hobble yourself with your own doubts. And do not let the rank and file see it, either.”

Ixchel took a deep breath. “Thank you, Vivienne. We haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but I appreciate that you _have_ always supported me.”

“Thus far, I still see a place for myself in your world,” Vivienne said with a small smile. “As long as there is space, I am certain that I can maneuver myself as needed.”

“I’m sure,” Ixchel agreed. “Take care, Vivienne.”

“Andraste guide you, my lady.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel joined the others in Morrigan’s chamber. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I know this will be a slow journey.”

Morrigan shrugged one shoulder. “Then let us begin it.”

Ixchel and Solas pushed the humans along as they could, while the mages and Bull hypothesized about what they found among Corypheus’s memories. Morrigan kept her banter highly academic and sarcastic, and she did not look much at Ixchel.

When they returned to Skyhold, they remained gathered in the eluvian room for a moment longer.

“Alright, everyone. We have a ton of information to sift through, and all of it might be helpful in the days to come. Dorian, Solas, Morrigan—I’d like you to work together with Leliana and our scholars, see what we can glean. Old Gods, the Black City, whatever we can learn to anticipate Corypheus’s plots.”

They nodded at her.

“I’ll be taking Thom and a small company out with me momentarily to meet with Varric and get an update. I’ll report back as necessary this evening.” She crossed her arms. “There are a number of Grey Warden keeps in the Approach, and Cullen has arranged for our forces to amass at a halfway point between the two largest: Adamant and Griffon Wing. I could think of no better place to stash a bunch of Wardens for an uninterrupted ritual. But in case we need a quick interruption, I want every one of you to be ready for war.”

She knew that her fears, her plans, were perhaps a little extreme in their eyes. She could see it in their faces, that they were doubting the severity of what was to come—alarmed at her conviction that it would be so extreme. But the threat of blood magic and the Blight were serious enough that they would listen, and she did not doubt their loyalty.

“Rest, and prepare,” she told them.

Solas hung back, but when Morrigan touched Ixchel’s elbow to keep her, he bowed his head and ducked out. When everyone had left and the door closed behind them, Ixchel turned to Morrigan and found her face troubled.

“Before this…madman’s mutterings, we had no sign that Corypheus was interested in what lies below the earth,” the witch said under her breath.

Ixchel ran a hand through her hair. “Right. Corypheus wants the Wardens for the demon army…to take over Orlais, to redraw the borders of the Tevinter Imperium he remembers. He wants the eluvians and the Well to breach the Veil and do...something. Become a god."

“In the future you saw at Redcliffe, his complete take over precipitated his rise to such power that he was prepared to enter the Fade itself once more.” Morrigan spread her arms. “But that took seven Magisters, an empire’s worth of lyrium, and a thousand sacrificed lives on his last attempt.”

“We’re missing something,” Ixchel agreed. “I’ve had that feeling for a while.”

Morrigan’s golden eyes flashed. “What if this story the Wardens believe…is actually true?” she said slowly.

Ixchel gave Morrigan a wide-eyed look.

“You know what _Kieran_ has in his possession,” Morrigan said. “’Tis the soul of an Old God, taken before it could jump to another Blighted thing. Two yet remain, uncorrupted by darkspawn. If this Magister is correct…”

Ixchel turned bodily away from the witch and covered her face. “Why didn’t I see it before?!” she hissed.

“You literally did not see it,” Morrigan said quickly. “Perhaps no one you spoke with at Redcliffe knew the truth.”

“No, but… The Architect, and Corypheus—and Mythal…”

She threw down her hands and stared at herself in the muted reflection of the sleeping eluvian.

_—a reckoning that will shake the very heavens—_

Was that why Mythal had taken Urthemiel away from Kieran? Was that power necessary…to reach the Black City and take her revenge against the Evanuris? What had come of that, before the end of the world?

Morrigan put her hand on her shoulder and dragged her back to face her. The women stared at each other in equal horror.

“’Tis all the more urgent that the Wardens escape his control,” Morrigan said in a rush. “Do you trust your mages?”

Ixchel’s mouth went dry. Solas had told her he didn’t know what the Archdemons and the Old Gods were. She didn’t know if she wanted that to change, given this possibility…but… Ixchel tilted her head back and tried to remember how to breathe. “Yes. I trust Dorian and Solas.”

“I…do not wish to tell them of Kieran’s conception,” Morrigan admitted, “but I will enlist them in my research. It is imperative.”

“You need not tell them, Morrigan,” Ixchel urged. “‘A soul cannot be forced upon the unwilling,’ and Darkspawn don’t have souls, and Wardens do, and that’s how you kill an Archdemon. That’s known in enough esoteric whispers to be a plausible starting point. Frame it as a search for what power an Old God might hold. Who they were, where their worship began and when… Dorian's already looking for where the Black City even came from. Same vein, right?”

Morrigan nodded, releasing Ixchel and brushing back her bangs. Her hand shook. “I would never have had Kieran if not for this soul, but…in this moment… I would give anything for him to be free of this destiny.” Morrigan turned back to face the eluvian. “If only I could speak to his father.”

Her voice trembled with uncharacteristic fear and pain, and Ixchel’s heart broke for her. Yet she found she could not think of anything to say to comfort her friend. After all… Kieran had been a happy young man without Urthemiel within him, without the nightmares and the whispers. But Ixchel had not been present for the end of the world. She had never learned the scope of Fen’Harel’s schemes that led him to that end. She did not know what had happened to Flemeth and Mythal and the Old God soul…and whether it would have been better for Kieran to have kept it.

“I will do my best,” Ixchel swore. “I will do my best to fix…everything, at Adamant.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel found Thom and Sutherland’s crew and made sure they were ready, then returned to the eluvian. Ixchel knew her way well enough now that Morrigan’s presence was only necessary to activate the eluvian.

The two women gave each other solemn nods, and then Ixchel departed.

They took their time, letting Sutherland and Shayd wonder at the magic of the eluvians while Voth and Rat trailed behind wide-eyed. When they reached the Hall of Uthenera, Voth’s eyes went round with awe.

They stepped through the eluvian to reach the Western Approach and found Varric and Lace Harding sitting outside of it. The light was stark in the shady canyon they had set up camp in, and they blinked and squinted as they arrived—then their eyes widened when they saw the force Ixchel had brought.

“Gee, Sunshine,” Varric chuckled nervously. “How’d you know to bring the whole army with you?”

Ixchel gave Varric a tight hug, then Lace. “I left you with Hawke and Fenris for so long, I figured someone would be in trouble,” Ixchel deadpanned. “Where are they?”

“We finally got a lead on the Wardens last night,” Varric said. “We set up a watch around this ancient Tevinter ritual tower, been taking turns watching it and waiting here for you. So far, we’ve only seen a Warden or two scouting the location, but it seemed like they went back to bring their buddies.”

“Why, then we should go welcome them,” Ixchel said. “Sutherland and Sers, you should come.”

Their eyes shone with excitement.

The trek through the desert was a cold one, but at least with the sun down the smell from the Blighted wastes wasn’t so bad. They skirted bandit camps and varghest lairs and finally reached Hawke, Stroud, and Fenris’s hiding spot.

Varric signaled their approach by tossing a flat rock across the sand as though he were skipping it across a pond. The stone came skipping back from the darkness, and Varric led the way forward. They huddled together as much as they could, and Ixchel quietly introduced everyone.

“We’ve seen lights coming from the tower,” Stroud whispered. “It is good that you brought reinforcements. There is a small host of Wardens, and many of them are mages. I fear we would be sorely outnumbered.”

“Blood magic’s started,” Hawke said. “You can smell it…or see the corpses, probably.”

“We should stop it immediately,” Ixchel agreed. “Sutherland, Hawke, you all take point. Watch for reinforcements, ready your barriers. Fenris, Stroud, Thom—up front with me. See if we can do some talking. Varric, stick to the shadows. You see a Magister, you put a bolt in his throat.”

Her companions—except Thom—gave her open-mouthed stares at the uncharacteristically ruthless tone to her voice. Her jaw clenched. “I mean it.”

She led the way forward into the ritual tower. The torches were lit, and the smell of blood was fresh.

“—remember your oath, Warden? In war, victory. In peace, vigilance—”

Just as Ixchel had wished, a crossbow bolt sprouted from Magister Erimond’s mouth mid-speech.

The Wardens rounded on her instantly. The one who had been resisting his sacrifice backpedaled away from them toward the now-dead Magister; the ones who had not yet bound a demon or been sacrificed drew their weapons and readied their staves, but Stroud shouted:

“STOP! Wait! Parlay with us, Wardens!”

“Stroud?” A fair-haired Orlesian mage stepped forward. “What is this?”

“Warden,” he said with barely-restrained anger, “you have all been duped! These Tevinter Venatori work for Corypheus, and it is he who put the Calling in all our minds!”

Ixchel glanced at his insignia and figured he was the ranking member of the Order in this venture. Perhaps ranking enough to know the name of the Wardens’ one-time prisoner, for his face fell with utter shock, then filled with horror as Stroud spoke.

“He is one of the ancient Tevinter Magisters who breached the Black City and first unleashed the Blight on Thedas,” Ixchel said for the rest of the gathered Wardens, who were confused and concerned solely based on their companion’s expression. “He uses the Blight like magic—but his Nightmare can only control your minds if you partake in this ritual. Isn’t that right?”

She fixed her eyes on the back row of Wardens, who had turned their glowing eyes upon her the moment she arrived. They were backed by a group of Shades, which did not give her the slightest pause. Their mouths moved as one: “Your tongue shall be the first thing the Elder One removes, _da’len.”_

Ixchel’s allies had no need to even move. The unbound Wardens turned on their mind-controlled brethren instantaneously. Before Ixchel could do more than activate her chromatic great sword, the demons and their keepers were downed.

In the aftermath, they stared down in horror at the grisly scene. Warden blood pooled, black in the moonlight, beneath their feet. Some of them looked at their hands in silence. A few fell to their knees, weeping.

“What have we done?” was repeated by many. “What has become of the Order?”

The leading Warden approached Stroud quickly. “The rest—everyone is gathered at Adamant. Clarel sent us here with the Magister to test out the ritual, and I was meant to report back on its efficacy before she allowed anyone else to die. We must tell her at once.”

“Are you certain no others have undergone the ritual?” Ixchel demanded. “None at Adamant?”

“None that we know of,” one of the remaining Wardens said quietly.

Ixchel’s heart skipped a beat. It took all of her self-control not to burst into a very out-of-place grin. “And the Magisters—were there any more?”

The Wardens looked at each other uneasily. “A woman,” one said. “She arrived yesterday.”

“Calpernia,” Ixchel guessed sourly. She stepped forward to address the Wardens. “I leave you this choice. Go to Weisshaupt—there, perhaps, you will be safe from Corypheus’s influence. Do not fear your Calling until this monster has been defeated! Warn your leadership of these Magisters Sidereal, and their control of the Blight. Or, help us save your brothers and sisters in arms at Adamant.”

Every single Warden stepped forward to crowd closer to their leading officer.

Ixchel looked at Stroud. “I was kind of hoping _someone_ would go to Weisshaupt.”

“I should go,” Hawke said immediately. He and Sutherland’s crew had approached as soon as it seemed the fighting was over. “If not for me…Corypheus would not be free. I'll see this through.”

“But—” Fenris said, then cut himself off and looked away sharply.

“We can discuss that in a moment,” Ixchel said. “For now—Adamant.”

She looked back at the Wardens. “This Calpernia is the _leader_ of the Venatori. She would not travel alone. And I fear what Warden-Commander Clarel and the Wardens will do if the Inquisition approaches. Your return to Adamant will be a dangerous one. If you go to attempt to convince your allies…I would ask you to take Thom and Sutherland with you.”

Ixchel nodded at the adventuring crew, who stood straight and proud under her gaze. “Hide them away in the fortress. Should the other Wardens turn on you, as they did Stroud, you will at least have some allies—and a runner to fetch aide, should you be overwhelmed by the Order or the Venatori.”

The Wardens looked uneasy, but their conviction was beginning to bolster them again. “I wish your fears were unfounded,” their leader said. “This is…almost worse than what we had imagined. We will accept the help.”

“There is a secret entrance near the cistern,” Thom said. “We can infiltrate the keep that way, stay hidden ‘til you’ve need of us.”

Sutherland put his hand on Rat’s shoulder. “Where will I send Rat, if things go sour?”

Fortunately, the Wardens always carried a map with them. Ixchel pointed to the site where she would establish her forward camp at Adamant. “It’ll be a few days’ journey for you all on foot. I wouldn’t waste any time—I fear what Calpernia can convince Clarel to do, if you’re delayed,” Ixchel told the Wardens. They nodded grimly. “I’ll have my people leave immediately too, so the camp is in place when you arrive at Adamant, just in case things go south, fast.”

“I will go with the Wardens,” said Stroud to Hawke and Ixchel. He looked back at the group. “You must tell me everything that has transpired since the Magisters infiltrated our leadership.”

Ixchel sensed that it was time for her to leave. She held out her hand for Stroud and tried to keep a straight face, but her fear and her excitement and her guilt and regret were engaged in such a conflict in her chest, it was difficult. “Be safe,” she said, voice choking in her throat. “We’ll expect you at the forward camp.”

He nodded gravely. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Then, she faced Sutherland, Voth, Shayd, and Rat. “I mean it. Be safe. I have big things planned for the lot of you when this is done.”

They saluted her with feverish gleams in their eyes. “I’ll run,” Rat promised.

-:-:-:-:-

As soon as they were out of sight of the tower, Ixchel couldn’t contain herself any longer. She rounded on Fenris and Varric and threw herself at them. With her arms around Varric’s shoulders and locked around Fenris’s elbow, she swung them round in a stumbling dance. “We did it!” she said incredulously. “We did it!”

“We have done nothing,” Fenris said darkly. “There may be hundreds of Wardens yet in danger from the Venatori.”

“But we have a chance that they’re not all puppets of Corypheus,” Ixchel insisted. “Now we have a chance that the fortress won’t be full of Wardens, Venatori, _and_ a demon army.”

She released Fenris, but she kept a tight hold on Varric. She looked between them, then squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to grin so maniacally. But it was hard not to feel like now, it was real. Now, she could save Hawke and keep Varric’s heart from breaking.

She had to remind herself that victory was _not_ yet assured. In fact, quite the opposite. She had no idea what to expect at Adamant now.

But no demon army.

“I still can’t believe they’d agree to such a plan,” Hawke said. “The Wardens. Why is it always blood magic?”

“They thought it was necessary,” Ixchel said.

“All blood mages do,” he snapped back.

Varric sighed. “Hawke’s right. Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions… And it never matters.”

“In the end, you are always alone with your actions,” Fenris said harshly.

“Might I remind everyone that the Fifth Blight was so short, half of the world doesn’t believe it even happened?” Ixchel said. She pointed out to the west. “Have you _seen_ the land out there? Imagine two Blights at once. Imagine a Blight with no hope of killing the Archdemon. Look out there, and maybe it doesn’t seem so fucking crazy to want to go kill those Archdemons before they wake up, by any means necessary.” She gritted her teeth. “At least they weren’t using civilians for their sacrifices.”

“Oh, that’s a cheery thought,” Hawke growled. "When I get to Weisshaupt, we'll see what their limits really are."

Ixchel let go of Varric and crossed her arms. She looked up at Fenris with a fierce glare, and his dark expression eased. He reached out to put a heavy hand on her head, but then he moved back, closer to Hawke. Hawke’s eyes flickered to Ixchel, then back to Fenris. Ixchel felt her cheeks burning in the dark, and her insides squirmed.

Varric sucked in a sharp breath. “You can do it, Broody,” he said under his breath. “C’mon, Sunshine.”

As Ixchel and Varric walked ahead of Fenris and Hawke to give them some privacy, she heard Fenris say, “…I didn’t think I needed anyone…”

“How’s it been with the two of them?” Ixchel asked Varric.

“Grim,” he said with a low chuckle. “Maybe that’s how they like it, these days.” He patted her on the back. “How’ve you been? You were floating on air a minute ago.”

“Things’ve been grim too, honestly,” she replied. She gave him the rundown of what happened at Samson’s hide out, about the power that Corypheus sought.

Varric swore softly. “I see why you’d be happy about this, then. And why it’d be nice to keep some Wardens around.”

“I mean…” Ixchel shrugged. “The Wardens had Corypheus for a thousand years and never figured him out. But they’re handy for a Blight—and no one deserves the fate he had in store for them, anyway.”

He sighed. “Right. Murderous Wardens, Archdemon attacks, plenty of blood mages…crazy Templars… You really know how to make a dwarf feel right at home.”

She put her arm back ground his shoulders. “We’re going to finish this, and you’re going to go back and rebuild Kirkwall, Archdemon-free.”

“I’d just be happy to get the sand out of my boots, at this point.”

* * *


	93. Aversions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/20/20

She sat with Hawke, Fenris, and Varric by the fire for a while before she left. For some time, they talked mostly about their journey and some capers along the way—pointedly avoiding the topic of blood mages, Corypheus, and the Wardens. Ixchel was just starting to feel like she should return to Skyhold when Hawke caught her eye.

“Sorry ‘bout earlier,” he said without any reticence. “This whole mess just has me thinking of Carver and Anders. If I hadn’t told them to go into hiding, they’d likely both be dead for speaking up against this bullshit plan.” His eyes were narrow over the war paint streaked across his face. “And I don’t like thinking of losing them.”

Ixchel waved her hand. “The Western Approach tests everyone’s charity,” she said with a small smile. “And it’s hard to be charitable about blood magic.”

Her companions chuckled.

“Fenris is under the impression you don’t want us at Adamant,” Hawke said carefully.

Varric looked at Ixchel, surprised. “What? Don’t you think they deserve to see this through?”

“There are more of the Magisters Sidereal out there, Varric,” she said. “If this is what Corypheus can do…and if this is how seriously the Wardens take Corypheus… Weisshaupt needs a wake-up call. Desperately.” She clasped her hands in front of her and tried not to let her heart break just from saying: “If you want, you can go with them.”

Varric’s eyes widened, and then he turned his head away. “Nah. You kidding, Sunshine? I don’t even have a quip for that.”

“I’m still sorry for sending them away,” she said, agonized. “But yeah… I insist.”

“Of course, I’m sure it’s partly to keep the temptation of our favorite glowing elf away,” Hawke said nonchalantly. Fenris’s facial tattoos flashed with the strength of his ire in that moment, but Hawke just shrugged. “ _I_ had to put half a continent between the two of us so I would stay away,” the mage said. “I’m sure it’s the same for our dear Inquisitor.”

Ixchel buried her face in her knees. “U-um.”

“This is just how he _is_ ,” Fenris grumbled. “Don’t take offense. He’s not.”

She shook her head. “Um. That’s good. But just so we’re clear…” She peeked up from between her hands and looked at Varric sidelong.

“No.” Varric’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? Was there poetry involved? I bet there was poetry involved with Chuckles.”

Ixchel leaned back and looked up at the sky, mostly to avoid looking at anyone else. “I should get back soon,” she said.

“Chuckles is Solas, yeah?” Hawke clarified with Varric. “Huh. Didn’t think he was your type.”

“It’s the brooding,” Varric mused.

“Alright I’m leaving. Be safe. I love you all.” Ixchel stood, kissed the top of Varric’s head, and then tried to escape.

Fenris stood and followed her to the eluvian alone.

“I apologize for their teasing,” he said. “It was inevitable. That seems to be just how it is, when you live in Kirkwall long enough.”

She shrugged. “I knew I couldn’t escape it, probably,” she admitted.

He nodded and looked up at the eluvian’s shimmering surface. In the light, his dark skin was washed nearly as pale as his lyrium brands. “Ixchel… I do remember what this means for you, to have averted this ritual,” he said. “But I also know it doesn’t mean you’ve averted everything. The danger you told me of… If Hawke knew, he’d never let us leave you. _I_ shouldn’t let us leave you.”

Ixchel looked up at him, a weight melting in her chest, easing some of her concern. “Don’t get all selfless now,” she teased. “I really do need trustworthy agents headed to Weisshaupt, in person. My spymaster’s agents just won’t cut it for something this…complex. And I have my armies, and some masterwork runes… I’m feeling good about this.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you think that if you keep saying that, you’ll have nothing to fear?”

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “So what did you tell him?“ she asked.

Fenris looked down at the ground. “That I didn’t want him to leave the first time, and I didn’t want him to leave now.”

Ixchel’s heart swelled. “Fen…”

He couldn’t help but smirk a little. “I believe that’s what Varric calls character growth.” He turned back to her and hesitantly offered her a hug, which she accepted enthusiastically. She let her ear rest against his chest and closed her eyes. “Maybe the next time I see you, Hawke will smile again,” he said under his breath.

Ixchel squeezed Fenris gently, wary of his brands. “I’ve got faith in you,” she said.

-:-:-:-:-

When Ixchel returned, she locked the room to the eluvian behind her and immediately began her rounds. Solas was not in the rotunda, but she could hear Dorian and Morrigan’s voices upstairs in the library so she imagined he was with them. Her first stop was not with them, however, but with her Commander.

He was sat at his desk, writing, and he didn’t even look up when she entered. At first she felt a pang, for she thought he was ignoring her—but when she cleared her throat, he seemed so startled that she realized just how absorbed he was in his work. Upon seeing who his guest was, he did a bad job of not looking embarrassed and regretful. It was not helped by his unkempt hair; it seemed that he had been worrying at it while he worked.

“Lots of thoughts to get out on paper?” she guessed.

“Ah, yes. I’ve found that it…helps…separate myself from the…” He shook his head. “That’s not important. How are things on the Approach?”

“No, it is important, Cullen,” Ixchel said. She crossed her arms and leaned against his bookshelf. “I was really harsh on you yesterday. I wasn’t speaking to you as my friend.”

Cullen set down his implement and ran a hand across his face. “No, you were speaking as the Inquisitor,” he replied. “Which you have every right to.”

“But it’s not what I _needed_ to do in that moment,” she said shortly.

He looked down at his desk.

“I do care about how you’re doing,” Ixchel pressed.

Cullen nodded, still avoiding her gaze. “I…spoke to Maddox, as you saw. I wanted to know exactly what Samson has been telling his people, why they follow him…why they would allow him to turn them into such monsters.” He shook his head, sending a lock of his hair falling into his face. “You were right. Of course, you were right. I hadn’t thought it possible for Samson to have good intentions—however misguided…yet that is exactly what Maddox told me. When I heard it again from the Red Templars, it sounded fanatical, of course, but Maddox…”

Cullen looked up at her. “It’s a common misconception that Tranquil are devoid of _all_ emotion, desires…will. But there were enough Tranquil in Kirkwall that I saw beyond that. Perhaps it is not the same kind of emotion we expect from one another, but—Maddox, whether he pieced it together from the facts of the world, saw their moral patterns…or whether it is a genuine emotional response…he _cares_ for Samson. And Samson, out of anyone—Templar or otherwise—cared for Maddox.” His jaw clenched. “I believe that now.”

Ixchel listened intently, and she nodded when Cullen finished. “Everyone, even Corypheus, thinks they’re fighting for a better world,” she said.

“Maddox wasn’t,” Cullen said with a small shake of his head. “The Red Templars aren’t. They’re fighting to be _heard_. They’re fighting to be seen, before their stars go out. They want the world to acknowledge them, their pain… That’s all. And you were right about this, too: It’s because they don’t know to hope for more.”

Ixchel bit her lip.

“I told Maddox—and Leliana—that we wouldn’t interrogate him.”

Ixchel’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not opposed, but really?”

Cullen nodded. “Dagna is talented enough that she could reverse engineer Samson’s armor just from seeing his dirty laundry, I imagine. With Maddox’s tools and scraps, she’ll be able to find a way to disable his armor, no doubt about it. But I had to make it clear that there was no purpose in Maddox killing himself, because we would have no use for him either way.” He propped his forehead up on his hand and stared down at his notes again. “Of course, it’s a rhetorical nightmare saying, ‘You are useless but you need to stay alive,’ to a Tranquil.” He snorted.

Ixchel did not laugh.

The Commander continued. “After I told him about quitting lyrium…he had some interesting proposals about treatments and protocols. For Templars who come afterward.” He nodded down at his papers. “That’s what I was writing down, mostly. He cared enough to observe the Red Templars, and Samson, and even to investigate lyrium addiction a bit himself. We both think the Red Templars who’ve already begun _growing_ the stuff are hopeless, but the others… And it will be much easier for Templars who’ve only ever had normal lyrium.”

“Is that hope I hear?” Ixchel asked quietly.

Cullen smiled a little, then looked up. “Yes.”

She smiled back. “Is that what you’d like to do, after all this…” She waved a hand around them at the Inquisition banners. “Start a recovery program?”

“The idea of a farm, and a dog, and a life of stewardship in such a way…” Cullen breathed deeply. “Yes, it is remarkably appealing right now. But first, we need to make it through this alive.”

“Right.”

“So…the Approach.”

Ixchel nodded and informed him of her success and findings at the Tevinter ritual tower. “My hope is that we may not need the full force of the army after all,” she said.

Cullen stood and went to the window. “No, it will be good to have them there. If there is only the rumblings of a resistance, the full force of the Inquisition will make them think twice. And if there’s an all-out siege, we’ll be ready, too. I must admit, I’m incredibly glad we sent so many of the Templars along, instead of keeping them here… If there’s as many Venatori as you fear, they should be the first ones inside that keep.”

“The Warden mages alone will need the Templars to negate their bindings,” Ixchel said. “You’re right.”

“What is our timeline, then, Inquisitor?”

“I think I should head out with Cass, Dorian, Solas, and Bull as soon as possible. If we can intercept Venatori reinforcements who haven’t arrived at Adamant, all the better. And I’d like to be ready to respond at a moment’s notice. Has Rylen taken over command in the field yet?”

“He just arrived last night.” Cullen gestured at some correspondence. “If it is to be a true siege, however, I feel that I should be there. Our rank and file deserve that.”

“They do. I agree.”

“Then perhaps I will join you when you leave?”

“I’ll let you know,” Ixchel promised. She straightened up and turned toward the door, to head to the tavern to find Bull, but Cullen started toward her.

“Ixchel… I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

He held her gaze bravely—and she knew it took bravery from the way he stood like he were facing a court-martial.

Ixchel restrained herself from closing the distance between them and embracing him. She pressed a hand over her heart to contain it within her chest as she met his eye and nodded. “I know,” she said. “I’m proud of you. And I’m glad you’re alive, Cullen.”

His shoulders relaxed only the slightest bit.

“Today is not the day, and neither is tomorrow.”

-:-:-:-:-

Next was Bull. She knew to knock before opening the door to his quarters behind the tavern, but she also knew that Bull didn’t really partake in anything quiet enough not to be heard outside the door, anyway. As it was, he called, “Come on in,” and she obeyed.

“Hey there, Champ. How’re things out west?”

He had been working on his Ben-Hassrath reports, it seemed. He set them aside casually, and Ixchel gave him the summary as she sat on a stool amid the chaos of his room. There was an axe still embedded in a hunk of wood that might once have been furniture.

“More ‘Vints? You sure know exactly what I like,” Bull said with a grin. “Are there going to be dragons too? Wait, don’t tell me. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

Ixchel laughed. She stopped as Bull suddenly became very serious. “You know, we really haven’t had a chance to talk since you got rid of all of the people who worry about you and sent them across the sea,” he said flatly.

Ixchel let it roll off of her. “It was a tactical choice,” she said. “But that was a bonus, yes.”

Bull snorted, then tilted his head back to eye her. “When you came out of Halamshiral, you seemed like your faith had been shaken,” he said suddenly. “But something’s changed. You seem like you have more solid footing. That, or you’re running from something _else_.”

The Inquisitor shrugged slowly.

“You know the difference between being a merc and being an operative?” he asked.

Ixchel tilted her head with a curious frown. "Where are you going with this?"

Bull lifted a hand off his stomach. “Just play along."

"Alright. What's the difference?"

"With merc work, you always know what you’re in for. You get the job, you have a deadline, you plan things out. When you’re just out in the field, all the uncertainty really weighs on you. Your enemies could be anywhere—in the fog, in the crowd, around the corner. You could have a good day with your men, everyone’s in peak form. Or it could be a bad one. And a bad one means losses.” He eyed her carefully. “You’ve been through enough of that. You know you can’t control everything, but you can’t stop trying. Because you know enough to plan.”

He pointed at her. “You know enough to plan, so you do. But having plans isn’t the same thing as control—though it’s tempting to conflate the two. Which you’re doing, whether you realize it or not. You’re setting yourself up to have the carpet pulled out from under you again, the moment a plan goes awry.”

Ixchel shivered despite herself. “So what do I do, Bull?” she asked. “I’m _afraid_. How do I change that?”

“The day before Haven fell, we talked about leaders and how your advisers couldn’t make decisions because they were afraid of the consequences.” He tilted his head to her. “The implication being that you could make those decisions and live with the consequences. I’m not saying you were wrong. I’ve been trying to figure out how you could be right, and still be so fragile.”

“Fragile?” she spat out, terribly amused. “Gee, thanks.”

“Yeah, fragile.” He set his jaw and did not back away from the word. “I thought it was very Qunari of you to let go of your fears and do whatever’s necessary, even if you’re afraid, but I think I’ve realized that’s not what you’re doing. _You’re holding your fears even tighter.”_

The Iron Bull curled his lip as he spoke, as though the words tasted foul coming out of his mouth. “Even when things go according to plan, you let your regrets turn into fears so that you can prepare for the future—to learn from your mistakes, right? Except you’re just doing it…so wrong. Instead of building muscle, you’re just cutting yourself in the same place over and over. That’s _not_ how you build scar tissue, by the way, Champ.”

Ixchel’s face was red, but she _felt_ so, so cold in the face of his words. Despite herself, she felt her lip begin to tremble. “Alright, Ben-Hassrath, what would your re-educators tell me?”

Bull exhaled heavily through his nose, and his lip curled even more. He seemed furious at her for being such a puzzle, with such a sad answer. “You’re afraid of the _guilt_. You’re trying to cover your ass from every angle so that when you do fail, you have no guilt. Well, you’ll never be perfect, and you’ll always fail in some way, and you’ll always be guilty. That’s the way of the world.” He held her gaze a moment longer, then shrugged. “Under the Qun, that’s supposed to free you from fear, and allow you to experience true happiness.”

Hot tears had welled up in her eyes, but she stubbornly would not allow them to fall. She tilted her head back and gave a mighty sniffle to stifle them. “Well, I'm crying s-so...I guess that’s got to have been it, huh?”

Bull was quiet.

“Everything about me is anticipation,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to let go of that. I don’t know what I’m anticipating, and I don’t know when it’ll be _over_. If it ever will be.”

“Whatever it is, it probably won’t,” he said.

She took a deep breath, then sighed. “Yeah. Yeah.”

Bull's voice was suddenly soft. He leaned forward a little. “Who fucked you up this bad, kid?”

Ixchel looked back at him with an angry grimace.

“You’re too young for that kind of shit. This is like, what experienced generals get sent to the reeducators for. Now twenty-something little girls.”

Ixchel’s face twisted further in anger. “Gee, thanks. I don’t know. I have no memory of my parents, but they abandoned me in some ruins without even a _name_. We could start there, talking about uncertainty and control. We could talk about being a refugee, or getting caught up in all the Mage-Templar terrorism, or any number of other things,” she said, cutting herself off before she worked up too much steam and said something incriminating.

Bull’s frown deepened. “My guess was a betrayal.”

Ixchel froze. Her face fell utterly blank.

Her ears were ringing.

“Something you absolutely didn’t see coming. Something you couldn’t prepare for. It wasn’t just that the people you cared about left, like you’re always saying. It’s that someone you cared about completely and utterly betrayed you—tricked you? Pretended the whole time. Yeahhh,” he sighed. "That was it."

Ixchel stood. “I can’t do this.”

“Hey.”

Bull swung his legs off his bed and stood, but Ixchel was already making her way quickly toward the door.

“Champ—look, I’m sorry. But a battle isn’t a lover. A battle, a war, you can’t let them eat at you like that.”

Ixchel ripped open the door. “Table it,” she said ferociously. “Later. Okay? Okay.”

Bull sighed.

“Okay.”

He let the door fall closed between them as she stormed away.


	94. Arasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God I will deliver!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arasha - my happiness
> 
> 12/21/20

Ixchel wiped at her face furiously as she marched across the battlements. She received a few distressed looks from the soldiers patrolling the battlements, and she did her best not to heed them. But the embarrassment of being seen ignited what had already been kindled in her chest and sparked a terrible fury in her. She knew she needed to hide before she exploded on someone—but her fingers itched at the thought, curling into fists in anticipation of such a fight.

 _It wasn’t just one!_ she screamed inside her mind. _Three, three—three—the people I loved the most—!_

Ixchel went to the northern side of the castle and jumped down onto the roofs of the garden before climbing up over the apartments there so that she could make her way to the caved-in section of her tower.

 _That’s not exactly true either,_ she reminded herself viciously. _Cassandra never turned on you. She never left. She asked you to stay._

_You were the one who left her at the end, alone._

Ixchel collapsed in a loud heap of armor in the ruined corner of her tower, and it only jangled her nerves more. She kicked away some rubble and hauled herself up the stairs to her quarters. There, she slammed the door, tore off her armor and went to the bath. She didn’t even draw a full tub but simply gave herself a half-hearted scrub and put water through her hair to get the smell of red lyrium and Blighted wasteland off of her. She snatched up a long tunic to toss over her head, but nothing else, and then she returned to her bed to find Amarok and Cole waiting for her.

She sat heavily beside the spirit boy and flopped on to her back. She had managed to stem her tears while she was in the bath, but the anger and panic—and the pain—had not abated in the least.

Cole hid his face behind his hat, then took a deep breath and began to channel: "Lying awake, sheets soaked in sweat, afraid to call the Tamassrans. Shadows make shapes in the dark," Cole whispered. "If it gets in my head, how do I cut it out? Itching, shaking, tears slide cold down my cheeks. 'Tama, I'm scared.'"

Ixchel flung an arm across her face and gritted her teeth.

"Does that make you feel better?" Cole asked hesitantly.

"No. It just makes me feel mean!" She clenched her fists. The fire in her chest consumed all the air in her lungs and made her face burn, sting. “I _know_ Bull’s afraid too! It doesn’t help!”

Cole was quiet as he began running his fingers through her damp hair. Eventually, he changed tactics. "He didn't betray you," Cold said. "He held true to the mission no matter what. It's what you taught him."

The flames in her lungs roared, and a sob ripped from her chest. No—Cole was wrong. It had been what Bull taught her, and she had taken it to heart. When he had answered the Viddasala’s call, she had been betrayed…but she had understood, because it had been what he taught her.

But it had been what _she_ taught _him?_ All along?

Ixchel rolled on to her side away from Cole and clutched at her chest.

"Oh no, I tore the tangle," Cole fretted. “Your fear, your fear— _‘let go of your fears,’_ don’t hold them closer… The other fears... Solas hasn’t betrayed you yet. He never betrayed you. He never promised anything. He was only ever his own.”

Ixchel snarled into the mattress. “How can you _possibly_ know that?”

“Your hurt touches his pain,” Cole said, calm against her rage. “It’s part of the song that’s hard to hear, faint because it’s from the end, but it’s been there since the beginning. _Ane mala vasreëm_ —he thought that leaving you meant he wouldn’t love you. Love, sister to Empathy, Empathy with its beautiful chains—he thought it would free you.”

Ixchel jumped to her feet and rounded on Cole. She took him by the shoulders to shake him from his trance, but he reached up and grabbed her wrists, held her gaze with a ferocity that was uncharacteristic of him. “He knows better now. He’s _chosen_ better.”

“For now!” she spat through her teeth.

“If you _push_ him away, he will run!” Cole said, tightening his grip on her wrists as she tried to pull away. “And if you look at them all like they’ve already left, that’s what they’ll think you want them to do!”

His words triggered a visceral reaction within her that immediately made her recoil. She tripped over Amarok, then stumbled away, horrified at herself. For a moment, she had wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him—wanted to hit him—for how his words hit her.

Cole did not seem any more troubled than he had been before. He peered up at her from where he was hunched under his hat with his wide, watery blue eyes.

“Why doesn’t it matter, that they _didn’t_ betray you?” Cole asked softly. “Why can’t you let go of the responsibility? _You_ didn’t end the world.”

She dug her fist into her eyes. Ixchel’s breath strained in her throat, and she swallowed it as hard as she could, tried to keep it behind her teeth.

Cole looked down. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said. “I don’t think I could help your hurt as a spirit. You hold it too close. But being mortal means you hurt like this—and _I_ don’t want to hurt like this .”

“No,” Ixchel rasped. “You don’t.”

He curled his hands into fists, then relaxed them, and then the spirit boy slipped off of the bed and stood. "...Cullen wants me to help his dreams.”

Ixchel held her breath, but then it came bursting out of her in a more vicious sob. But this time, Cole's words hadn't been salt on a wound. It was a balm, though the application still hurt. She was glad Cullen had asked. She was glad she knew that Cole would go to him. She was glad to think that it might help both of her friends.

Cole let out a sigh of relief when he sensed the change in the tide of her emotions and threw his arms around her. She hugged him back tightly. Behind them, Amarok rose to his feet, gave a shake, and then padded over to nuzzle his way between them, a light in his eyes.

“Thank you, Cole,” Ixchel said, pressing her eyes into his shoulder. “You should go to him.”

“I spilled Solas’s paint so he’ll be late,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t want him to see, not yet, but if you sleep now that’s all there will be.”

Ixchel sighed and released him.

Cole vanished, and Ixchel went out to her balcony to cool down. Amarok followed and lay down so he kept the back of her legs warm. She leaned against the railing and put her head in her hands as she tried to settle her breathing. She sniffed fiercely and rubbed her eyes more.

She was upset. But she was upset _because_ she was upset, rather than for the reasons she was _originally_ upset. Cole was right, of course. Solas was so different than the man she had known. As he had reminded her, she did not know everything about him, and that applied to his motivations and his path ahead as well.

Bull…and Dorian…

Ixchel’s fists tightened. No, those hurt.

Dorian hurt for the old reasons. He had known her pain. He had known why she chose to do what she’d done. He had known how deeply she hurt, how tired she was, and she would never be able to forgive him for looking her in the eye and telling her to do it again, and do it better. Her _best friend_ , that was a betrayal. But at least…at least she wasn’t planning on killing herself again. And for as much as they had grown close over the past few months, especially since coming to Skyhold, she wasn’t sure that they were so deeply embedded with each other that he would even think to do what he had done, should, somehow, the same scenario unfold.

Bull, she had been at peace with until just this moment. Part of it was that she was angry for being read so easily. For the distaste and disappointment she had seen in him as he realized what had happened. _Fragile._

She knew he was trying to help, and she also knew he was trying to get a read on her for the Ben-Hassrath. Maybe this explained to him why she would run into a burning alienage by herself, risk her life so easily as she often had. But what did he think was going to happen when she broke?

Cole’s words troubled her. She had wondered so often how her words were interpreted by Fen’Harel, how he justified his actions with her as his model. Especially in the early days, he had taught her history and lore and learning, but he had always watched _her_ chart her moral course. And she had watched Bull, with his Chargers.

It wasn’t fair that he had watched her, too.

Ixchel stood like that for a while, wondering what he was learning now.

When Solas eventually came up, she felt a little more collected.

“When I found all of my paints spilled, I assumed that someone was trying to keep me downstairs,” Solas called. “It did not seem like your doing, but would I be wrong to think Cole was telling me to give you space?”

Ixchel turned to meet him. “I’m alright now,” she said. “You can stay, Solas.”

Solas drew closer, and his concerned expression grew more troubled. _"Arasha,_ why do you weep?" he asked softly.

She raised a hand self-consciously to her eye, then threw her hands down and sighed. “Bull gave me a talking-to about leadership, I guess. Told me not to be so afraid?” She scoffed. “I can’t just stop being _afraid.”_

A breath escaped Solas, short, but not a laugh or a snort. “Ah.” He came to lean against the railing beside her; he had to step carefully over Amarok, as the wolf seemed uninterested in moving. “It is not surprising to hear such a thing from a Qunari.”

Ixchel tipped her head back and gave him a mournful look. “Solas…he was trying to figure out _why…”_ She swallowed. “With his Qunari logic and all…why I’m like this. What happened. He was right. I think.” Solas’s eyebrows rose slightly. “He guessed that it was something I didn’t see coming. He’s right that it wasn’t just that the people I loved left me… He thought that someone I cared about betrayed me. Pretended the whole time.” Her voice shook, but she did not drop his gaze. “It wasn’t just one. There were two.”

The look of dark grief and pity had reappeared on his face, and she realized that she couldn’t go all the way. Not now. This was as close as she’d allow herself.

Amarok whined and raised his head up for her to catch in her hands, and she leaned down to kiss his wet nose rather than look at Solas beside her.

Her lover released a long breath. “You called your life _ebal’en’shiral,”_ he said. “Putting your faith in others, your hopes, even though disappointment is almost guaranteed. A path of pain, the deepest sorrow…but despite that, I have always seen that you are the brave guide.”

“I try,” she said softly.

 _“Ir abelas, Ixchel,”_ said Solas. “I mourn all the suffering you have survived. But you have survived it.”

Ixchel couldn't look at him then. He exhaled sharply. "You _have._ Deathroot included."

Her eyes were burning once again.

“In telling me…perhaps I can better remind you of that fact. That you have survived every sorrow and loss this life has made you endure.”

Ixchel forced herself to look back at Solas. “You deserved to know why it’s sometimes hard for me—”

But he cut her off. “I deserve nothing. I could see the hurt within you, and I trusted that whatever it was, it made you who you are now… I love the woman I see in front of me. I do not need to know more to love you. I would like to know more, _because_ I love you.”

Ixchel’s throat constricted painfully, and Solas’s brow eased into something less pained, but more weary. He reached to tuck her hair behind her ear, then slipped his long fingers beneath her chin.

“Love is loss, and trust is fear,” Solas murmured. “That is the burden of a free world: hopes are not guaranteed, and deprivation, a certainty.” He tipped her face up, and his eyes scoured it—traced the scars, the ink, the curves. His breath on her cold face tasted like honey and wine. “You are doing everything you can to act upon the world, and the world will respond as it shall respond. Life is a story written by two hands… That is as beautiful as it is frustrating, as it is terrifyingly unpredictable.”

"Life is a story," she repeated humorlessly. Perhaps her story would not have been a tragedy, had she not written its ending.

Solas gave her the slightest of smiles, encouragement and empathy in his eyes. "What would the happy ending look like, after this confrontation you fear?"

Ixchel took the corner of her lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. She knew she should not hinge so much on the events to come at Adamant; as much as not knowing what would await her could signify an impending cataclysm, it could as much lead to an even better path forward than the ones she could imagine. But she could not imagine the best outcomes, for fear that they not come to pass and thus leave her wanting all the more.

And even if they did…she knew she would never rest, never be happy, never stop looking over her shoulder…never give up her fear.

She shook her head ever-so-slightly.

" _Arasha,"_ Solas whispered sadly as she struggled. “You were betrayed so deeply by these people that you believe the very world will betray you. Yet you walk this path—you face your fears…you try, regardless. Try _this,_ if only to indulge me.”

Ixchel stepped away from him and skirted around Amarok. The wolf stood and gave Solas an inscrutable look before jumping off the balcony into the garden below, but once again Ixchel did not run to see what had become of him. She held out her hand for Solas to take.

“It’s all so silly,” she admitted as he laced their fingers together.

“The sweetest dreams often are, upon waking,” Solas said. “You know that I am a fan of dreams.”

She barely mustered a laugh as she led him to the bed, where he sat and took her into his arms. She tucked her bare legs beneath her and leaned into his chest. He rested his chin atop her head, and they were quiet for some time as he ran a hand comfortingly up and down her back. His other hand was still clasped with hers between them.

Ixchel would have normally been content to remain silent, and be held, until she fell into the dreaming world in his arms. But the foundation of everything she had expected had been cracking for some time, and as all her plans shifted, she found some of her reservations slipping away...if only _just._

Ixchel had to hide her face in his shoulder, but she tried, as he had asked. “We’ll save all the Wardens, and Calpernia will defect, and no one will die,” she said into his coat. “Few will die. No one will get Blighted. No one will betray us. No one will resist… We’ll fight Corypheus, and we’ll win, and then…” She trailed off, because she was more afraid of the words to come than anything she had ever said before—to him, or to anyone else. Her whole body was tense in his arms, and she could barely summon a voice louder than a breath.

Solas pressed his face into her hair.

And she continued despite her fear.

“I want to be with you. I want to be happy. I want you to be happy.” She curled further into his shoulder, as though to shield herself from blows. “I want the world to change… See elves and mages and the powerless fight for equality and dignity…protect and enhance magic…preserve what was…and be happy.”

“None of that is silly,” Solas said quietly.

“Impossibly ambitious, maybe.”

Solas pulled her more tightly into his arms. “ _Arasha_ ,” he began, but then fell silent. Or perhaps that was all he had wanted to say. He ran his hands through her hair, and she held him tightly and listened to his steady heart beating within his breast for a long time. As his nimble fingers danced across her scalp and down her neck, her skin tingled...not with magic, but with something more. Her toes curled, even as the rest of her muscles began to loosen. She swept her thumb across the back of his hand that was still held between them, and she raised it to her lips to kiss his knuckles. Perhaps it was to thank him. Perhaps it was a promise.

“Did you succeed in the west tonight?” he asked at last.

It was difficult to believe that she had, only a few hours before, been so giddy at having averted the Warden massacre. “Yeah,” she said. “We encountered a small group of Wardens being led by a Magister in a ritual that bound demons to them—and bound them to the Nightmare in turn. We killed the Magister before more than a handful were lost. Now the Wardens are going back to the fortress where the rest are holed up with Calpernia, to try and prove the treachery to their Commander.”

Solas’s chest rose and fell quickly with his surprise. “The Nightmare?”

Ixchel nodded and turned her head to glance up at him out of the corner of one eye. “Did you realize something? Find anything in your studies?”

“It is a strangely powerful creature,” he said with a frown. “Even a ritual powered by blood magic and the Blight as this might be, it should require immense power to reach across the Veil and take another’s will. Of course,” he added, “we are not surprised at its power necessarily. But…”

“Do you think it’s more than a demon?” she asked. “More than _just_ a Fear demon who feeds on the Blight?”

Solas sighed. “You can find anything in the far reaches of the Fade,” he said darkly.

Ixchel couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that escaped her. “Ah. I make the Dread Wolf worry. I should have that written on my standard. ‘If I can make the Dread Wolf worry, you stand no chance,’ something like that.”

Solas gave her a grim look, thoroughly unimpressed with her cavalier attitude.

“I’m going to take Bull and Cass with me and head out to join Varric in the morning,” Ixchel said. “You and Dorian should stay and help Morrigan research.” His dark look did not abate. She could feel the force of it on the top of her head, but when she looked up at him fully, his face was carefully arranged to seem neutral. “I’ll be safe,” she insisted. “I have one-and-a-half armies out there. I have people on the inside. And maybe by the time there’s a confrontation, Calpernia will have heard what we found at the Shrine to Dumat.”

Solas traced the line of her cheekbone to her ear, then behind it, and coaxed a shiver from her that left her skin riddled with goosebumps. “I fear that it is not merely a demon army they are trying to summon, Champion,” he murmured. “If you are to face the Nightmare—or those under his control…then you might face your deepest fears, stolen from you in the Fade…”

“If they pull the Nightmare through a rift, I will be facing it in the waking world,” she tried to assure him. "On my terms."

But his worry touched her deeply. Everything about his gentle and steady reassurance touched her, and as she gazed into his eyes, she thought, _Life is a story_. Ixchel slowly uncoiled herself and rose up to wrap her arms around his neck. She rested her forehead on his as she turned and slid her knee to his other side, to straddle his lap. _It doesn't have to be a tragedy. It's not so silly to be happy..._

A warm, wide hand came to rest on her bare thigh, and his lashes flickered as he glanced down at the skin revealed there below the hem of her tunic. She followed his gaze, then looked back up through her lashes and let her yearning heart take over. Breathless as she was, she gave him a tentative smile. “Are you being grim and fatalistic so that I take you with me to Adamant...or are you being grim and fatalistic in hope of bedding me before I leave?”

He barely wasted a beat. “I _am_ grim and fatalistic, Ixchel. Getting you into bed would be an enjoyable side benefit.”


	95. Marked without Malice**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment we've all been waiting for.........
> 
> And the last update for a while! Because my big PhD candidacy exam is in mid January and I need to focus. I'd love to hear your feelings about Dead Pasts Dread Futures to keep me going in this awful time lol.
> 
> Anyway on this smutty note...
> 
> Happy holidays!
> 
> -  
> See here for the Elvhen: https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7826624
> 
> 12/21/20

Ixchel pressed a light, gentle kiss to his lips and rose up on her knees, pressed closer against his chest. She thrilled at the sense of control she felt as his head tilted back to follow her, at the way his eyes closed so blissfully to await her next kiss. She cradled the back of his head with one hand, and the other pursued the line of his jaw to find the soft skin of his neck. She kissed him again, and again, and again, each time with a little more pressure, until at last his lips parted and he allowed her entrance to his mouth.

Solas’s hand on her thigh had also grown heavier, and his fingers tightened against the swell of the muscle there seemingly to anchor himself as she kissed him. He had lost his preoccupation with her hair, and his fingers trailed tantalizingly down her spine to the curve of her waist. The motion elicited another shiver from her, and he opened his eyes to drink in her expression with attentive eyes.

Nothing about his manner had been anything but gentle and kind, yet with just that look he raised the hairs on the back of her neck. With that look, she was suddenly made ever more aware that she had caught the attention of an ancient being whose power had rivaled that of the gods. His breath tasted of honey and wine and _magic_ ; the beat of his heart was inextricably tied to the pulse of magic in her arm, and to the fabric of reality as she knew it.

And this beautiful, terrifying man turned his head from hers to kiss the inside of her burned arm where it rested on his shoulder. His eyes flicked back to hers obliquely, full of the same admiration he had shown just a few nights ago, when he had cataloged all her scars and burns and flaws and told her—

He had made his way higher and caught her throat with a light, open-mouthed kiss, and her brain stopped processing language and memory. There was no room for thought when she so dearly needed to pay attention to these precious sensations.

Ixchel shifted in his lap, settled herself more firmly even as she arched to give him better access to her neck. He tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her closer; her heart twisted in her chest with the same yearning to be closer than even that, to become one with him, and her lips parted but did not release the plea that thrummed through her being.

She could feel him beneath her, with so little to separate them. Those light kisses beginning to linger, teeth and tongue added to his exploration. He worked back down her neck to the collar of her tunic and nosed it aside to find the same spot that had caught her so off-guard when he had nipped her there. This time, the anticipation had its hooks in her—but he did not bite her. He kissed her shoulder again, breath heated on her skin—and then he traced the curve of a swirling scar with his tongue.

Ixchel's knees tightened around his waist reflexively, and he slid his hand down from her waist to her ass to pull her closer. So little kept her from his fingers, and he had to know it, but he seemed to be in no hurry to move forward. Instead he returned to her lips and kissed her searingly, a chuckle caught in his throat. Though she was the one atop him, and she was the one who had pressed the initiative as she had, with that single kiss Solas plucked reigns out of her hands—and she ceded her lead willingly.

Ixchel let him kiss her the way he wanted to: deep, and warm, and without urgency but unceasing nonetheless. Perhaps it was many kisses, but they blurred together in an endless wave against her pliant mouth. Each tilt of his head, each pull, each heavy breath that passed between them only built the excitement within her. The disbelief at herself—for shedding her worries for just one moment, that she would allow herself, finally, this one happiness—made it all the more potent, made her all the more eager.

Her senses were dominated by his hot tongue, gentle friction against her lips, the seams of his breeches against the inside of her thighs, and the alternating pressure and ghostly exploration of his hands upon her. For the hand that had, to that point, remained chastely on her thigh now slid upward toward the hem of her shirt, then ghosted beneath it to explore the heated skin of her hip. He curled his fingers appreciatively around the swell of her ass and dragged her down against him again. This time, she couldn't help the breathless, quiet moan that escaped her—and was quickly swallowed by his relentless kiss.

Solas bunched the shirt up until both his hands found bare flesh, and he swept his palms up across the muscles of her back to find her shoulders, then drew forward to follow her ribs around to her front. Ixchel's breaths shook her, and her skin was covered in gooseflesh despite the heat of his hands. And when his long, elegant fingers finally traced beneath her breast and found the thin scar that ran up the center of her chest, the contrast between the chill of the air on her skin and the heat building in her core made her hiss like lava meeting the sea.

Solas's palm covered her breast and pressed, then slipped lower to catch the nipple between his fingers. She broke away from his mouth briefly to take in the look on his face, and she was fascinated at the dark, watchful curiosity he directed up at her in kind. He rolled the peak of her breast between his fingertips as he held her gaze; she bit her lip in an attempt to keep her face schooled—though why she would even try, when her ears were certainly glowing and she was probably dripping in his lap, she didn't know. But even the slightest change in her expression vindicated him, if the heat in his eye was any indication.

Her mind raced with desires—his lips on her skin, his teeth tugging at her breast, his fingers in the inside of her thigh, inside of _her_ —but she tried to keep to the pace he had set, and she returned to kissing him. There was one thing she needed desperately, though: to be skin-to-skin with him, and soon. She worked his coat from his shoulders, and that seemed amenable to him, for he removed his hands from her body briefly to allow her to slip it from him. His sweater she had to tug over his head, but his undershirt clasped at the back of his neck and peeled away from there. The material was waxed but supple, and it whispered as it fell from him and left him bare from the waist up--except for the jawbone that still hung on his chest.

Solas resumed his exploration of her ass and breasts, seemingly still content to kiss her without pursuing anything more.

Meanwhile, the anticipation was going to kill her, or at least the mounting pressure of the coils all wound up inside her would, and soon. She did her best to simply admire his skin with her fingertips and palms as he did her own, but as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, she couldn't help but scrape her nails lightly down his shoulder-blades. A heavy breath escaped him, and she felt the tension mount in the muscles of his back, the line of his body against her. The rattling breath thrilled her, and it prompted her to scrape her nails back up his spine.

As she drew her hands up to his shoulders, he followed the motion and pressed closer while simultaneously grasping her tightly with a hand on her waist and an arm around braced behind her shoulders. Thus secured, he flipped their positions gracefully and lowered her back to the bed. The jawbone swung forward and landed on her chest—then dragged down to her stomach as he pulled away.

She blinked up at him, framed against the moonlight that poured in from the balcony, and he looked down at her. “ _Ane ir’ina’lan’ehn,”_ he murmured, running a long finger down the length of her exposed thigh down to her knee. His eyes flashed up to her face as she quirked her knee a little wider, both to escape the ticklish sensation and to invite him back, closer.

She swallowed thickly at that look he gave her and was suddenly very shy, which she knew was ridiculous—she was a grown, experienced woman who had defeated would-be gods and caused the Dread Wolf to doubt his ways—and he had made it clear that he found her body pleasing—but the slow, smoldering pace and the restraint she felt he was showing made her feel foolish for being as eager as she was.

It seemed that he sensed her uncertainty. He slipped his fingers beneath the cords of his necklace and hung it on the bedpost near him. Then he gestured with his chin that she should move back; she pulled herself further into the bed, and he followed her closely. His lips found hers first, and then he slipped his hands beneath her to drag her hips up into his to make his intentions clear.

She arched into him, drew her knees up on either side of him to pursue the pressure. He gave it to her, grinding her back down into the bed with his hips—but once there, he caught her hands in his own and raised them to either side of her head and slowed his movements to what would be a torturous rhythm.

He dragged his lips across her cheek, then to her ear.

“Patience, you quick child,” he murmured. _“Isalan dera na aron tuelan.”_

Ixchel’s breath burned in her chest where it had caught upon hearing the heated promise in his voice. When his hands slipped out of hers, she moved her own to his bare shoulders—but he took even that from her, because he had pushed up her shirt and drew back to admire the skin he revealed. Kneeling between her legs, he admired her abdomen with appreciative hands, then chased his touch with his lips. She hummed as his lips and tongue left burning flesh in their wake, across her ribs, below her—

His mouth quirked mischievously against her skin as she pressed her body closer in anticipation. She hooked an ankle behind his knee and stretched the other out as she raised her hips into his, and then he pulled her shirt off the rest of the way and dove down to attend to her breasts at last. The tip of his tongue traced a hardened nipple, then swept flat across it, hot and wet before he took it into his mouth. Her hands were free to explore his neck and shoulders again, trace the shell of his ear, feel the muscles in his jaw move, and he hummed against her skin to make his appreciation known.

Solas’s bare torso seared her where they touched; his skin was deliciously smooth against the many scars and burns that roughened her own.

She cupped the back of his head as he sucked at her breast, rolling the peak gently between his teeth as his fingers mimicked the motion on the other. Her sighs were deeper now, as though by releasing her breath in such a way she might release some of the mounting tension inside her. As he drew back, pulling her breast with his lips, something more like a moan escaped her. She looked down at him and caught his eye sparkling with mischief. He released her breast and turned to the other, still holding her gaze—until his fingers caught the wet, teased nipple between them and twisted and she lost herself to a full-body shudder. He pulled at it more demandingly with his lips, and she was like molding clay in his hands, willing, eager, reactive.

By the time he was done with her breasts, her nails were digging in to his shoulders and her knees were squeezed tight around his hips, desperation mounting.

Solas slid up her body to lathe at her neck, one arm coming beneath her to brace her shoulders and tangle in her hair while the other danced down the length of her to skitter across her hip bone. He sucked at the nearly ticklish juncture between her neck and shoulder, and then added the slightest hint of teeth just as his fingers slipped lower, between her legs.

Ixchel’s whole body came alive when his fingers dipped between her folds; he wasted no time and immediately pressed one finger deep into her heat, finding her ready enough. It was like electricity in her blood, tightening every muscle from head to toe, and she dragged his head closer to her neck on instinct even as she raised her hips to draw his finger deeper. He curled it inside her once, twice, and then he raised his lips to hers and swallowed her gasp as he inserted a second.

It embarrassed her to moan, but as he rocked his hand into her and she _heard_ the sound of her wetness, she couldn’t help the sound. That clearly pleased him, and he pressed his thumb beneath the hood of her clit. He worked her well, swallowed every sound he could coax from her, teased her, drew her to edges and back until small shudders wracked her body. At that point, he drew back a little to watch her reactions to his ministrations.

She was hardly conscious of it. Her heart was in her throat; it had been pushed out of her ribs by a pressure building inside her, a hot coil that burned to her fingertips. She bit back a much louder groan of desperation as he denied her release again.

He slipped his fingers away, and her eyelashes fluttered as she tried to refocus on him only to see him licking the taste of her off of his hand while he unlaced his breeches with the other. She curled toes in anticipation of hte first sight of him, and her eyes devoured every new inch of skin he revealed. She drew life from the way the moonlight hit his skin, made his long, lean arms glow like the petals of a Divine Lotus. His lips twitched—but still she had not been able to coax a true smile out of him.

Her fingers itched to touch him, already imagined the silken texture of his cock, the heat of it at her fingertips. As though reading her mind, he reached for her, took her hand, and brought it slowly to the loosened hem of his pants.

She pushed herself upright and hooked her fingers in his breeches. She could feel the hard length of him straining for release. With her eyes still on his face, she freed him and took him into her hand.

Curse him, he barely even blinked.

Ixchel wondered how something as gentle and unhurried as this had been had become a contest, but as she began stroking him she resolved to give him as good as she had received. As she pleasured him, her palm that held the Anchor explored the glorious expanse of his back, the ridges of his ribs, and the long lines of his hip bones. His cock was like satin, and Ixchel was delighted when, with a gentle pull on his shaft and a swipe of her thumb across the head, she coaxed a low groan out of him. He breathed deeply, his grey eyes half-lidded but glimmering with desire.

She closed her eyes as she took him into her mouth, focused on cataloging his reactions to every new variable she introduced—her tongue beneath the ridge, or gentle pressure in her mouth as she sucked, or a long lick along his length. His hands were achingly gentle as he pushed her hair behind her ears and gathered it away from her face, but when she took him deeper into her mouth his grip tightened tellingly.

Wicked pride filled her when she recognized how much he seemed to be focused on staying still, on schooling his breathing, to withstand her edging. When his back was beginning to bow, he tugged on her hair and pulled her away. She released him from her lips with a wet sound and smirked, for he had closed his eyes as though praying for strength.

With a hand at the base of her throat, he pushed her back into the bed. She wiped her mouth and drank in the twisting muscles of his back as he slipped away to remove his breeches entirely. He bent to pick up their clothes from the floor and her mouth went dry, for it afforded her an awe-inspiring view of the flat planes of his ass and the long, lean strength in his legs.

It would have amused her to no end that he had taken the time to put their clothes neatly atop her dresser, but she was too impatient for such things. She slipped a hand between her legs to rub herself in anticipation of his return, and she was emboldened when he turned and took in the scene.

The loping steps he took to return to her side were the slow, loping steps he had taken as he circled her in Suledin Keep, and the same predatory focus had entered his eyes, locked as they were on her own. Her heart stuttered as she recalled the wicked smile he had given her then, and the ghost of it appeared on his face now as he drew closer. It widened to a sharp smirk upon climbing into bed, and he took her wrist in his hand and drew it up to his lips to lick the taste of her away. She closed her eyes and focused on the sensation of his tongue between her fingers.

 _“Jutuan ma ir rosas’da’din, ma tel’aman melin,”_ he said huskily, and the loudness of his voice, the unabashed promise in it, thrilled her more than almost anything else. He pressed a kiss to the Anchor, then to her wrist, and released her hand. She let it fall to her chest and left it there, eyes still closed as he pulled one of her knees up and opened her legs to settle himself between them.

Her first climax came quickly; he nipped at the taught juncture between her thigh and the needy heat of her, made all her muscles jump. Then his breath was on her slick and then his _tongue_ , and as he dipped deeper into her, the tension in her pulled tight. Ixchel stretched herself, at once trying to escape the overwhelming sensations and simultaneously trying to enjoy his tongue against her. His fingers dug into the taught skin at her hips to trap her against him, and try as she might to curl her toes, she could not fend off the rising pleasure he brought her. He drank deep of her, probing and teasing at her core as she rode out the first rolling waves of her release.

Just when she might have regained some faculty, he raised himself a little and traced the tip of his tongue around her clit. Her fingers dug into her own breast, and she bit into the back of her other hand to stem what she knew would be a mewling cry. He flicked the sensitive pearl with his tongue at a steady pace, building the tension in her again with heavy sweeps across it whenever it seemed she might crest at last.

She thought she heard him murmur against her skin, and she certainly felt it; she shuddered to her toes. With his mouth alone, he pulled a second orgasm from her that rocked her more than the first, and he added his fingers before she was even done—an answer to a plea for _more_ that she hadn’t even voiced. He gave her two fingers immediately, pumping into her with the same steady pace he set with his tongue, and the second melted into a third—a white-hot thrill that reached the deepest parts of her, something that excited even her spirit itself.

“Hnngh, _Solas_ —”

She was nearly sobbing into her arm, and her chest was heaving with the effort to restrain herself when at last he pressed a kiss to her thigh and rose up along her body again. He nosed her face into position to kiss her again, and she groaned loudly as his tongue pressed the taste of her into her mouth.

Ixchel tightened her grip on his arms and levered herself up and around until he was on his back in the bed, straddled by her. They both cried out as she ground herself along his length, teasing as much as it sated, but then he caught the end of her hair in a tight grip and tipped her head back.

“ _Not yet,_ Ixchel.”

“No,” she said roughly. “Not yet.” She pressed herself against him and moaned again despite herself. She kissed Solas ardently, with her whole heart, trying to communicate the depth of her desire, the years of longing he could never know, that were about to be fulfilled.

Ixchel released his lips and nipped at his neck, the space behind his ear where she could reach it. His hands had a life of their own; one had slipped between them again to tease her clit, while the other scraped up her back. When she sucked at the sensitive spot she had found, his cock strained between them and his moan was unrestrained.

“May I mark you, _‘ma fen?”_ she whispered.

“Your lead,” he said immediately. His nails dug into her back. “You bite… I bite.”

“Good.”

She was proud of the whole-body reaction he had to her ferocity, even prouder of his ragged breaths in her ear. With her teeth and her tongue and the slide of her heat against his length, she hoped that she unraveled him as well as he had done her. Ixchel supposed it was fair enough to claim a victory when he could take no more, and he pulled her away by her hair.

He chased her upright, latched on to a breast with vicious intent, and she sank dangerously close to him in his lap. He exposed her throat with another drag of her hair, and he claimed the skin there with a searing kiss that would _certainly_ leave a mark, all teeth and friction and a hint of a snarl.

Solas pushed her back again, but before she had adjusted to being on her back, he had followed her, entered her with one slick motion. He had prepared her well, but the suddenness of their joining shocked her and she could not contain her short wail as he hit the depths of her. Her thighs trembled when his hips met them, and they paused there.

His forehead dipped to hers, and he left lingering kisses across the vallaslin that gleamed under a sheen of sweat. Their hands soothed and welcomed each other, and he murmured Elvhen words she couldn’t catch in her distracted state but words that nonetheless dripped blood and honey and praise.

Ixchel at last wound one leg around his hip, ankle hooked beneath the curve of his ass to nudge him deeper. Thus began their tryst in earnest.

Solas was true to his word. He was relentless in his pace, and his thrusts drove him deep within her—almost painfully so. Ixchel met him with equal measure for as long as she could, but when he dipped one hand between them to pleasure her while he fucked her, she ceded the match to him. She clung to him, mewling with every stroke, until at last she buried her face in his shoulder and fully gave herself over to white hot ecstasy.

He slowed, arms coming to cage her tightly in adoring support as she rode out her release. But before it had fully left her, he tightened his grip on her hips and began again.

She praised him with broken words, called him home into her, and he at last gave her the brilliant smile she had been seeking as a prize.

Ixchel came again, and again, in his arms, but every time he seemed close he would slow and regain some composure. She was laughing in one such lull, and she brushed her fingers across his damp cheek adoringly.

“Are you showing off your generosity, or am I denying you what you desire?” she asked.

He nuzzled her nose with his own. “Perhaps I am denying myself. Very well.”

Solas pulled back, and she groaned at the sensation of him leaving her, of how empty she felt without him. With his hands on her hips he guided her onto her stomach. Her heart lurched as he tugged her to the edge of the bed and let her legs fall to the floor to brace herself as much as she could. The bed was high, and she had to stretch to her toes to do so, which was made all the more difficult as he bent over her back and lavished her heated skin with kisses, clearly relishing the sweat that clung to her now.

Ixchel was glad that he was not going to take her on her knees. She might have had to kill him on principle, and she wasn’t certain she had enough control of her muscles to accomplish that at the moment. He slipped his hand between her folds again to catch the slick, mingled fluids. Then he had guided himself back and sheathed himself easily inside of her. His wet mouth pressed kisses all along her shoulders and breathed endearments against her skin: _mar rodhe ir’on…jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din.…juveran na su tarasyl…_

Ixchel reached behind her to cradle his head, and she arched back as best she could to meet his lips.

Solas’s hips rocked into hers, and then he took up his savage pace again. This time, every thrust had her shrieking for him as he hit something so deep within her it was painful, but oh so sweet.

His teeth dug into her shoulder and she realized almost gratefully that he must be close. She surged up to meet him, panting, hissing as his grip on her hair and her hip tightened.

She had lost track of how many times she came, but she came again with him, pleading, praising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ane ir'ina'lan'ehn - you are so beautiful/gorgeous  
> isalan dera na aron tuelan - I lust to touch you like a Creator / I will touch you like a god/goddess  
> Jutuan ma ir rosas'da'din, ma tel'aman melin - I will make you come so much that you won't remember your name.  
> mar rodhe ir'on - you taste delicious  
> Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din - i will fuck you until you have no endurance left  
> juveran na su tarasyl - i will take you to the sky  
> \--  
> Because I love you: handsome Solas content:  
> https://pin.it/74QEapy  
> https://pin.it/6zkTz7p  
> https://pin.it/5H1UjmL  
> https://pin.it/3kT8z4q  
> https://pin.it/6FUqdfI
> 
> Gaze into his eyes........


	96. Afterglow**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quiet Christmas miracle!
> 
> *returns to the depths of grad school hell*
> 
> 12/25/20

Solas tightened his grip in her hair to bring her upright in the moment of their release, and her inner walls fluttered in response. After a moment or two, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. He braced her against his body with a wide hand splayed across her chest, fingers at the base of her throat; she was glad to feel so secure, because the aftershocks still rocked her, and her limbs felt utterly boneless.

The ardor that had overcome him was replaced once again with the gentle admiration that had prompted their coupling; Solas eased his grip on her and carefully brushed her hair away from her glistening temple, where he tucked it behind her ear. Yet even that still electrified her, so sensitive in the aftermath. The hand on her chest swept upward to curl loosely around her throat, and those long, elegant fingers ever-so-slightly nudged her chin to the side so he could kiss her cheek and then her lips tenderly.

"You are so perfect," he breathed.

Ixchel opened her eyes to find his elven pupils blown wide in the dark. His eyes were creased in the corners as some tight emotion overcame him. She raised her arms to loop them behind his neck, and she stretched to kiss him just as gently. He responded by tightening his grip on her throat and trailing his other hand down her thigh again.

She could already feel his cock stirring in her. Mercifully, however, he pulled away and released her to go in search of a cloth. It was all she could do to collapse forward into the bed rather than melt into a puddle on the floor, and she rolled on to her side to blink slowly, sleepily in his absence.

Solas returned and wiped the traces of mingled fluids that had dripped down her legs. There was nowhere neat to place the rag, and now she found it immensely funny that the normally impeccable mage would toss the filthy thing so carelessly over his shoulder into an unknown corner of the room. But she had no energy to laugh.

Solas climbed into bed with her but left her her space; the only place they touched was his hand beneath her hair. It lay against her neck, thumb behind her ear, seemingly just to remind himself that she was solid, still there. Or perhaps it was meant to reassure her about his continued presence at her side.

Regardless, Ixchel was happy to float in the afterglow of their love-making. Enveloped in the smell of him, the remnants of their joining, and the familiar sounds of her home, she tried to push out Despair and Regret and Terror and focus on love alone. Love before loss, love before betrayal, love before resentment. Underneath all of their history, before she had tried to love a god, she was Ixchel, and he was Solas, and she loved him.

Her breaths deepened until that precipitous moment where she might have fallen into the Fade. But instead, her mind...missed. The fall sent her consciousness sprawling out around her, awash against the pool of his mana beside her and the residual enchantments in the atmosphere and foundation of Skyhold.

In that unknowably long moment of heightened awareness, Ixchel felt the press of the Veil around her and heard the whispers of Spirits just beyond it. Something called to her, not by a name but rather with a pull on that _feeling_ that ran through the core of her soul. But most of all, Ixchel felt _Solas_.

Nothing about it was like first time this had happened, in the Fade; there, Solas's immense power had been all-encompassing, shaping the dream purely by existing within it. Here, she understood what Cole migh have seen in her, and in Solas. For Solas was sharp and clear, as though he were the realest thing in reality.

The moment ended abruptly and her limbs jumped as she regained control over them. She gasped

Solas turned his head to look at her with concern. "A dream?" he wondered aloud.

Ixchel shook her head and shivered. She was suddenly terribly cold, and empty, and wanted to be contained. She crawled closed and curled herself against him, arms seeking, and it seemed he understood. He tangled their legs together and half-covered her body with his own. He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

"My mind..." she whispered haltingly. "The mirror-smooth moment..."

A startled breath cooled her forehead.

"I could feel the Veil like a screen, something behind it calling to me...and you. You're so _real_ ," she said, looking up at him in helpless awe.

Solas returned the look. "That is how I feel about you, _arasha_. You are a beacon, burning."

She swallowed. "What do I do with that feeling?" she wondered.

He hummed quietly and nuzzled closer to her cheek. "Go to sleep," he said simply. At her frown, he gave a soft, laughing exhale in her ear. "There, I will try to show you."

She turned her face to enjoy the sensation of his cheek against her own, and she breathed deeply of him—incense and power and sex and Solas, Solas, Solas.

"I love you, so impossibly much," she whispered in a small voice.

His grip on her tightened but he did not look up. "Impossibly so," he echoed into her hair.

-:-:-:-:-

And then she was chasing hanal’ghilan across the Exalted Plains, but she crossed a bridge and she was there. The Elvhen mountain ruins on the worst day of her life. Hanal’ghilan danced nimbly between the bodies of so many Qunari, but Ixchel was stumbling, tripping—no, they were _grasping_ at her, dragging her down—black waters—red beneath the roiling surface—

“Ixchel.”

Arms caught her. The bodies were gone. But her arm was black and withering, and he would soon take it—

Ixchel gasped for air and forced herself closer to him in defiance of her fear. She forced herself to embrace him, to remember that for now, she had two arms that were not dead, and her love had not left her, and he was trying to show her something. He did not wear the golden armor of the ancient ones who came before.

Ixchel released an incredulous breath against his chest. "What was that?"

"I don't think you were conscious," he said.

And that was probably true, because the Fade all around them now was entirely shaped by him. She peeked around to find that they were in the fountain section of the endless maze, standing in the water. Solas lifted her by the waist to sit her on a stepping stone, and he slipped his arms around her, standing between her legs. He was smiling a little, as amused and pleased as any cat who got in the cream.

"Such lack of control is unlike you. Perhaps I had tapped your deepest reserves of strength," he offered innocently.

"And you weren't even done," Ixchel said with a shudder that was only half-exaggerated. His dark chuckle made her toes curl. She fisted her hands in his cloak, partly to control the distance between them.

"As I have said, _'ma’av’in,"_ he purred, "I feel that I have quite a bit to make up for."

She smirked. "What, you didn't do anything risque in your thousands of years of dreaming, Fen'Harel?"

His grip on her tightened, fingers digging in to her ass to drag their hips together again. "I have heard that Fade sex ‘doesn't count,'" he said with a wicked smile.

She covered that smile with her hand, and he gentled, kissing her palm.

"By the way," he said beneath her fingers, "I am coming with you."

Ixchel stared at him, not understanding for a moment. Then, she remembered that she was meant to take her party through the eluvian…tomorrow, really. “But Morrigan—”

Solas’s brow tightened. "You will not be taking Cole. And Amarok..." He trailed off and shrugged. "He does not have such a wealth of places to hide you from your enemies."

She pushed him a little, smirking. "I knew it, Grim."

Solas laughed freely. The sound filled her with radiant joy, and even though she had just pushed him she wrapped her arms around his back and held him close. He returned her hug tightly. "It is much easier to find you and protect you when your mind is close," he said more seriously. “I would not leave you vulnerable to nightmares—either the servant of Corypheus, or ones of your own making.”

They held each other for a while, surrounded by the sounds of water and bird song and the wind in leaves. The air was crisp and warm, and he smelled like he always did, but somehow _more…_ There were _always_ smells in Solas’s dreams, she realized. It probably made sense, if he had been a wolf for so long, but she wondered how significant scent was to him in the waking world. She couldn’t think of how to ask without being weird.

At last she looked up at his chin. “So what do I do with…?”

“Ah, yes.” He chuckled and pulled away enough to find the hand that held the Anchor. “Manipulating the Veil will come most easily to you. While it is a valid style, I fear that it will be most difficult for you to use your innate power and avoid aggravating…this.”

She took the corner of her lip between her teeth, a little disappointed. She had seen his _style_ at work, as a potent Rift Mage battling the most powerful adversaries in Thedas, and she did so admire it. “My life would probably get a lot harder if I were to say blood magic, huh?”

Solas rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I am certain Cassandra would not approve.”

“Or Varric, or Dorian, or Bull, or Vivienne, or—”

Solas covered her mouth with his other hand, grinning. “I get your point.”

“You know far more than I do about this choice,” Ixchel said behind his fingers. “I don’t even know all the specializations out there. Do you?”

“Perhaps, and perhaps not. You have seen Vivienne in battle as a Knight Enchanter, and you seem to know that those traditions come from _ena’sal’in’amelan._ Some elves called that technique _Ghilan’him Banal’vhen,_ out of contempt for the physicality of the school, but only fools would doubt its honor and utility,” Solas said, and Ixchel looked over his shoulder to see two spirits take on the shape of elves in an exhibition battle. One wielded a scimitar that was made of magic, while the other was armed with only their will.

“It might be difficult for a two-handed warrior to adjust,” he admitted.

Ixchel clutched his hand tighter with the Anchor. “I will not always be two-handed, Solas,” she said carefully. “Perhaps I should practice now.”

The muscles of his jaw worked as he chewed on her words, but he did not deny her. “Do you have the luxury of that time?” he asked.

“Not now,” she admitted. “But if not now, when? I’ll hear your other recommendations, of course, _‘ma’lath._ ”

“Magic at its heart is questioning the reality one knows around them and calling the dream of what should be possible out of the Fade. Some of this is elemental, like fire, ice, and lightning. It might call upon denizens of the Fade themselves—to aide in healing or to harass enemies.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “But even this is just the beginning. With sufficient desire and imagination, one can make reality itself more mutable in the same way that Templars reinforce its _immutability.”_

His eyes flashed, and she felt the Fade ripple around them as a wave of magic washed over her. In its wake, she felt her chest tighten with a surge of adrenaline; the air was sharp and crisp, and her vision felt clearer than usual—and while her heart raced, her mind had singular focus.

“Auras of courage,” and here Solas nodded at her, “faith, fear… A sphere of influence as potent as if you were in a pocket of the Fade itself.” He tilted his head at a wall of the maze, which rippled like water, but not like leaves. “Illusion magic, wards, charms, are about leaving your mark on the world even once you’ve left. Then, of course, there is mastery of form. Healing. Others. It is possible to learn some of each, but there is a personality to each of us that shapes our dreams, and thus the Fade, in certain patterns over others.”

“What do you think?”

He chuckled and ran a hand across her shoulder and squeezed her bicep. “The physicality of the Arcane Warrior might seem natural to you, but I would not be the best teacher. Your _indomitable_ focus and force of will…” His silver eyes flickered back up to hers with a flash of mischief that made her wrinkle her nose at him. “Aura magic will be the next most intuitive, and useful in the long run…and the easiest to translate into the waking world.” He leaned closer to gaze deep into her eyes as though searching for some sign of magical prowess. “What is it that our Commander likes to say about shields? Perhaps we can start there.”

“A barrier?”

“No, a shield,” he corrected. “Barriers repel spells. A _shield_ is a shield, _‘ma’lath.”_

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke after Solas. Sometime during their exploration and exercises in the maze, her exhaustion had caught up to her, and a good stretch of her night was a blank and blurry stretch of unconscious slumber. When she did finally wake, she found herself tucked close to him beneath the covers in her bed. They were deliciously warm together, and the smell of sex had mostly drifted out from the open balcony door in the night, it seemed. But as she stirred and raised her face a little she could still smell it on his skin amid the prophet’s laurel and vandal aria that was the mix of his and her scents.

He brushed her hair away from her lashes. _“On dhea, arasha,”_ he said softly. “Rest well?”

She nuzzled into his palm and sighed. She was _scandalously_ sore, but the thrill of waking to a lover—and to this _particular_ lover—gave her energy despite the aches in her legs and back and elsewhere. She knew that she should bathe and don her armor and pack up for the Western Approach, as should he, but…

“How long have you been up?” she mumbled.

“I woke to make sure you truly slept and had not been stolen out from beneath me,” he said.

She looked up at him through sleep-clouded eyes. “How long?”

He shrugged and dipped closer to catch her lips in his instead of replying. His leg slipped between hers, and his upper body pressed close to cover her own while he kissed her and stroked her cheek. It was tender, this kiss, but solid, and wakeful. Much more wakeful than she was, with her limbs still weighted with sleep. Solas kissed her as though to revel in the fact that he could kiss her as he liked, whenever he liked. It was a statement; here was no insistent passion, no demure question, no coy coaxing to it—just a deep, constant sense of contentment that, indeed, there was no one and nothing else that could deny him this now.

Ixchel slipped her arms around his waist, one hand to sweep up his back, the other to follow the flat plane of his hip and leg around to his ass. As his manhood stirred a little between them, he chuckled.

“I recall we might have a busy day, Inquisitor.”

“The Wardens won’t return to Adamant for half a week still,” she murmured against his lips, and his fingers had already begun to wander across her hip and down her leg. When they reached her knee, his palm joined his fingertips to press and squeeze appreciatively at the muscle and begin an exploration upward again. His thumb pressed in to the taught cord on the inside of her thigh as he brought his hand closer to her core once again.

In return, Ixchel’s wandering hand whispered across his lean abdomen, fingertips tracing letters into his skin with a feather-light touch before settling at the base of his cock again.

Solas hummed a pleased breath across her face, but he only _slowed_ his progress toward the juncure of her thighs. He returned to kissing her, his tongue sweeping forward to ask entrance to her lips. She sighed again contentedly as he settled more closely into her, thoroughly preoccupied with deepening the kiss. His breaths were slow, and his lips unhurried, and that was the pace she followed with her hand between them. His manhood woke in her hand quickly, but his self-control was as strong as ever; his hips hardly stirred, except for when he finally nudged her legs wider with his knee so that he could slip his middle finger up through her folds.

A low sound of anticipatory pleasure was shared between them when he found her hot and ready. With long, slow strokes of just the one finger, he spread her slick around her clit and teased it with small circles that never quite passed across the pearl. When she was at last forced to release a short whimper at the torturous shivers he was coaxing from her, he had also started to lose his own veneer of control. His hips pumped slowly into her hand with every stroke, and his lashes fluttered when her thumb passed below the head of his cock at the apex.

Solas groaned into her mouth as he rolled her on top of him and swept his hands up to gather her breasts and knead them. “Good morning,” he murmured, then exhaled abruptly as she rubbed her dripping heat along his shaft. The tip of his cock pressed against her entrance as she settled in place, she moaned, too.

Ixchel reached between them to position him properly, and she blushed furiously as she caught him watching her with that preternatural focus that unnerved and aroused her so much. As he held her gaze so intently, he pushed and up into her ever-so-slightly. Her mouth opened in a silent oh at the stretch, and she dropped her hands to brace herself against his chest and beside his head. Her hair fell forward to ghost across his skin, a development he took advantage of by wrapping it up in his fist and tugging her head back with a gentle but insistent grip. Her inner muscles clenched in response to the tension against her scalp.

“Am I mistaken?” he asked in a low, husky voice, but the question in it was real.

“I like it,” she assured him. He rewarded her with what felt like only another inch of his length. As she tried to press down to meet him, he tugged again on her hair. Her fluttering eyes flashed open and he gave her the faintest smirk behind his placid mask. She swallowed hard. “Wh-what can I do for _you, ‘ma’lath?”_

“Hmm?” He pushed in a little more and her muscles clenched, as though to pull him further. “You can come for me until the only word you know is my name,” he purred. “You can show me the force of will that makes an Empress quake…”

She had to close her eyes again. “Mhm. Indomitable. Hm.”

He chuckled. It seemed to her that she was well on her way to fulfilling the first criteria. She decided that she was too warm, and her mind too gauzy, to examine what the other option fully entailed. With a last, slow movement of his hips, he sank the rest of the way in to her heat, and his grip on her hair eased to let her settle back on to him. He brushed a thumb across her nipple once more, then reached around to take a handful of her rear and pull her even closer.

“There will be plenty of time for us to explore that,” he promised her in a low voice. He withdrew, then entered her again with a gentle roll of his hips. Her toes curled, already anticipating a long, arduous climb to her finish. “I am happy for now to know I can pleasure you, Ixchel.”

The arm that propped her up nearly gave way, and she had to lean closer and kiss him—couldn’t help it. There was nothing else to do except kiss him in reply. Lucky and lucky and relieved, and more than a measure _satisfied,_ she felt, to hear the earnestness in his voice beneath the honey and wine.

 _“Ar lath ma, Solas,_ ” she said.

They made gentle love until she nearly wept just from the desperate need for _motion,_ and then he shifted his grip on her and gave her what she desired. She finished on a high, his name bitten out into his shoulder with a gasp.

She lay against his chest for a while longer, and she thought that maybe the both of them nearly fell asleep again. She caught herself slipping away and groaned, for she knew she did need to return to her responsibilities if their love was going to last.

Ixchel kissed him once again, then did the deed: she threw back the covers and stepped out onto the cold carpet. He followed her slowly and gathered up his clothes. She cast him a curious look as she gestured in the direction of her bath, but he pressed a kiss to her forehead and didn’t follow. “Perhaps I recall I cannot have my hands on you _every_ hour of the day and night,” he mused.

She gave him a laughing smile. “I will fetch you,” she promised, and with one last, lingering look to appreciate his naked form, she left him to dress while she went to bathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'ma'av'in - my mouth (sexual term of endearment)  
> ena’sal’in’amelan -arcane warrior/knight enchanter / one who protects victory  
> Ghilan’him Banal’vhen - the path that leads astray


	97. Western Approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/27/20

Ixchel stepped into Cullen's office and found him packed and ready to go. He had come by a new shield to replace the one he'd junked at the Temple of Dumat, fighting off Red Templars. This was a long kite shield embossed with a red Inquisition symbol.

He looked up from where he was arranging his things and stared at her. At first she wondered if she had something on her face, or that her hair was sticking up strangely as it sometimes did in the parts that had been burned in the past—but then she realized he was staring just a little below her face.

Ixchel tried not to blush. She hadn't looked in a mirror to see what damage Solas had done, but from the way Cullen looked at her she feared it might look like she'd been battered.

She cleared her throat. "I'm fetching the others. Meet at the eluvian in a quarter-hour."

"Ah, yes, Inquisitor."

Ixchel fled to find Cassandra, knowing she'd be in a secluded corner and maybe there would be fewer witnesses to the Inquisitor's damn hickey. But when she arrived at the Seeker's training area, she found that Cassandra hardly seemed to notice. Ixchel then went to find Bull.

He was in his usual corner of the tavern, studying the resident population. When she entered, he stared at her and didn’t look away as she walked over.

“You’re right, and it hurt, but it’s not as easy as just letting it go,” she said, sitting heavily on a stool beside him.

“Hm,” Bull said thoughtfully. “Yeah, I was thinking about it last night. Maybe that’s why so many converts to the Qun struggle with it in the end. When you’re raised not to have attachments to anything or anyone, it’s a lot easier to let go and bounce back. But life outside of the Qun is _all about_ attachments. Even to your pain.”

Ixchel shrugged. “Sure, maybe,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t know what to do about it, so let’s go kill something, huh?”

He chuckled a little. “Thought you’d never ask, Champ.”

She held out her fist, and he knocked it with his own. “I’ll find you in front of that fucking mirror bullshit thing,” he said.

Ixchel nodded and stood. “And…thanks, Bull. I know it’s all just so the Ben-Hassrath can figure me out, but…it still helps to figure stuff out sometimes.”

Something in his eye flickered; maybe his mouth tightened a little at the corners, and she frowned at him. But he just nodded. “’Course, Champ.”

As she turned to leave, Bull called her back. "Hey, Champ?" Bull's eye crinkled at the corner with good humor. "Have a fun night?"

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel made her way back to the rotunda. She noted that Solas’s packs were neatly stacked by his desk, ready to go, but he was not there. She found him upstairs with Morrigan and Dorian.

They looked up as one. “We found it. His name,” Dorian said in an excited whisper. “It was in the _Liberalum_ after all!”

“It seems he is but Sethius Amladaris, a High Priest of Dumat from nearly -400 Ancient,” Morrigan said. “But there are other names: the High Priests of the other Old Gods. ‘Twould benefit us, I think, to interrogate any living members of their houses. Perhaps some secret to their ascension and their goals might have been inherited—even unknowingly.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Ixchel agreed. “Anything we can know about those early days outside of Chantry songs would be helpful. So I guess that means you’ll need to work closely with Josephine and Leliana, Dorian.”

He nodded. “I’ve already given them several leads, never fear. But—” he snapped the _Liberalum_ closed “—hearing about this ancient ritual tower in the Approach has made me curious, _mula._ There is a legend passed down by researchers of a _certain caliber,_ if you catch my drift, of a lost laboratory where the most experimental of magicks were practised, out in the west. If that’s true, it might be just the place to investigate for clues about such matters.”

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “You are going to _hate_ the sand, Dorian,” she warned.

Dorian pursed his lips. “What if I promise not to complain _unless_ we don’t find this ruin?”

“What, is that meant to encourage her to find it for you, Pavus?” Morrigan scoffed. “Surely you need not accompany her until its location is ascertained.”

“Would you _like_ my prolonged company, Morrigan?” he asked pointedly.

Solas was smirking behind their backs, and Ixchel caught his eye over their heads. He immediately schooled his features. “I could attempt to locate such a place, Dorian, and fetch you then,” he said.

Dorian sighed. “As long as you _promise_ not to explore it without me.”

“I swear on my mother’s ashes,” Ixchel said. Dorian nodded, then realized, and she laughed—earning her an angry look from one of the mage scholars trying to study nearby. She cleared her throat. “But I promise, really. Now, you and Morrigan play nice.” Her face grew far more serious. “I have no way of knowing how much forewarning we’ll have should things go south. Be ready to join us at a moment’s notice, Dorian. Solas will be the one to fetch you through the eluvian.” She nodded at the two men, who nodded in return. “Good luck, you two,” she told Dorian and Morrigan, and she left them to their research while Solas joined her downstairs.

He donned his armor quickly and shouldered his packs and staff, and followed her to the eluvian. She had left it active the previous night, door locked, so when she opened the door she was uncertain at what she would find—but it seemed nothing had come through after her. Bull, Cassandra, and Cullen joined them, and they left for the Western Approach.

Lace was guarding the eluvian at the center of a new camp. She saluted Ixchel and Cullen as they came through, though her face was bleak. “Didn’t get to welcome you last night,” Lace said. "It's been slow going, Inquisitor. Between moving the eluvian, scouting ahead for a safe path out of the heat, and avoiding the Venatori, bandits, varghests, Blighted wastes, poison gas vents, and piping hot mineral pools..."

"You know, Cullen, I think it's time for Lace to get raise," Ixchel said seriously.

Cullen chuckled. "This does sound harrowing, Harding."

"Hey, at least I saw a dragon," Lace said with a sigh. "Prettiest one I've ever seen."

Ixchel gave her a look, then back at Bull. "Unless it's bothering anyone, it can wait until after we save the Wardens and stop the demon army," she said. "I guess we'll go meet up with Varric and the forward scouts then in the meantime."

Lace gave them a general direction and took their belongings to pack away into a cart. Cullen stayed behind with Lace to help. Solas drew up the hood of his cloak to hide from the sun, and Cassandra expertly wrapped a white linen around her head and face, while Bull seemed utterly in his element. Ixchel followed Solas's example and resigned herself to the fact that she was going to get cooked alive in her armor, probably. The last time she'd been here, they resolved to move mostly under the cool cover of darkness. She wondered if that would be a wise suggestion...

They caught up with Varric and his scouts as they were headed back to camp. "Hey there, Sunshine," Varric panted. "There's way too much of you here."

Bull laughed, but Ixchel just grimaced. "Find a way forward?"

"Figure there's only one way out of here," Varric said, "and it seems to be right through a major Venatori operation."

"How big we talking?" Bull asked with an excited growl.

"Looks like their home base out here, in an old fort. Not as big as the one west of here, but big enough I didn't want to risk it with a small party," Varric said.

"Sounds like a perfect warm-up," Bull said to Ixchel.

"I agree," she said. "I also think you're right, Varric, it's the only other way north through these cliffs." She nodded at her scouts. "Get back to camp and prepare to relocate. We'll try to handle the Venatori."

Ixchel clasped Varric's shoulder. "Sooner we clear this place, the sooner we get the fuck outta here."

Varric loaded Bianca and muttered, "Your lips to Andraste's ears."

Walking through the Blighted desert after a night such as hers was remarkably unpleasant. Her thighs ached and chafed in her armor and she was exhausted already. She wished she could have brought Cole to scout the Venatori's fort for them so that she might have an excuse to wait until night to spring an ambush. As it stood, she led her party up right up to the fort and strolled in like she already owned it.

The Venatori overseer stood out because he wore fine white robes, and because he fled into a cave at the sight of her. The battle with the rest was a tough one, mostly thanks to a particularly persistent spellbinder posted on the battlements who kept throwing fire mines down at the base of every ladder. Varric eventually got through his defenses and gave him a bolt in the eye for the trouble.

As the fighting died down, Ixchel heard a voice from the cave. "I surrender!"

She turned to find the mage standing just outside the opening, his staff on the ground and his hands up. She strolled closer.

"My name is Servis, Inquisitor," the man said. "I was hired by the Venatori to excavate some ancient ruins and hunt the Abyssal High Dragon, but they didn't pay me enough to risk my life like this."

She raised her eyebrows. "You tell me everything you know about these ruins, and maybe I let you flee back to Minrathous where you belong, huh?"

"Inquisitor—" Cassandra protested.

"The other option is death," Servis said. "I know you don't have the resources to handle prisoners in the Approach. You have a deal."

Ixchel hooked her greatsword back on her hip and gestured. "Start talking, Servis."

She stood over him as he showed her sketches, maps, runes that he had uncovered. He hadn’t been given much on what the ruins were or why he was looking for them, but given Dorian’s rumor about the ancient laboratory and experimental magic, she had a guess. It seemed Servis wasn’t even a particularly talented mage—his true interest was in the dragon. He had hired the White Claw Raiders to steal a traveling draconologist’s notes, but despite his orders they had killed most of the scholar’s entourage and the notes were ruined.

“Dragons, eh?” Ixchel smirked. “You have the honor to be in the presence of Lady Pentaghast!”

Servis’s eyes flickered to Cassandra, then back to Ixchel. “No offense meant, but I would prefer to study them in nature than study their remains.”

“Ah, then you _would_ like that scholar,” Ixchel mused. “Well, this is invaluable information, Servis. Safe journeys.”

As they watched him scurry around to pack up his belongings, Cassandra drew closer to Ixchel. “How do you know he was not hiding something? What if he is closer to the Venatori than you think?”

“We don’t have time,” Ixchel muttered. “It’s more important for us to gain passage here. I’m certain with Dorian’s help and our own exploration, we’ll find whatever it was they were looking for, anyway. This is one man’s life.”

Bull gave a dark chuckle. “One man can fuck a lot of shit up if he wanted to.”

Ixchel turned fully to face him, her hands on her hips. She did not speak, but she stared at him with her eyebrows raised until he coughed and lost his smile. “You’re lucky I don’t want to,” he said.

“You don’t, or the Qun doesn’t, currently?” she asked pleasantly, but before he could respond she patted his elbow and continued on. “Let’s signal Lace.”

-:-:-:-:-

They traveled quite a distance before night fell, and, reinvigorated by the drop in temperature, pressed on quite late. Ixchel fell into her tent with Solas and, shockingly, was reluctant to remove her armor in the sudden cold. She complained bitterly in her mind about the smell and the stiffness and the pointy bits and decided that she _really_ didn’t like this place.

Solas helped her remove her plate armor, but he had remained in his coat and leggings, so she was a little less self-conscious. As they settled in to bed, she groaned a little. She didn’t need to articulate her displeasure for him to understand.

“War is always filthy,” he agreed under his breath. “Get your rest, _arasha_. Let us be done soon.”

-:-:-:-:-

For as much time as Ixchel had spent wandering the Fade with Solas, she hadn’t realized just how different it was to wander through the memories of a _place_ rather than the memories of a _person_. It reminded her of the maze in many was, but also Vir Dirthara in others: the edges of her perception were filled in as they wandered, but where it ended, there was a formless fog and a directionless empty space. Solas led the way as though following a map, and it took her a while to realize that he was following a tiny wisp. When she focused her attention on it, however, it seemed to become more solid, perceived, and gained form.

They were following an ancient Magister, it seemeed.

The remembered-Magister led them to a massive fortress built to take up the whole of a canyon, barring passage. A blood magic seal on the door was bypassed with some ritual and then the Magister disappeared inside.

“It is reminiscent of a prison,” Solas said thoughtfully. “The canyon acts as a choke point for escape attempts.”

“Not the laboratory, then?”

He glanced at her. “Listen closely—you will hear the remembered pain. I would not have us linger here long in the Fade… The power of the Nightmare is stronger here.”

Ixchel listened as he had directed, and she heard the telltale shrieks of Terror and Despair within.

Solas took her hand and dragged them back into a more peaceful memory.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel heard the dragon in the distance over the course of the next day, though she was experienced enough to know that it was hunting to the south. It was positively torturous for Bull to hear its siren call and not be able to pursue it, Ixchel knew, and in some part of her she felt the same way. But the knowledge of what lay ahead her was enough motivation to keep going—despite the heat, despite the sun, despite the Blighted wastes to the west.

She took her party scouting the route ahead and came upon an overlook of the western wastes. They were silent as they stared upon it: the blackened earth where no life could find purchase, the oily sheen on the water in the river valley below, and the heat melting the poisoned air above it all.

“You know how Corypheus is all red these days?” Varric said. “I was thinking about it, with Hawke. Why didn’t we see the connection with the red lyrium before?” He pointed out at the wasteland. “It’s because he _wasn’t_ red. He’d just woken up and he was all _black,_ like darkspawn”

“I don’t know what that means,” Ixchel admitted, staring out at the Blighted land and thinking of red lyrium, thinking of the Black City, the Blight and the Fade. “But you know I don’t blame you for any of this, right?”

Varric just looked at her sadly.

“You really shouldn’t, Varric.” She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “If anything, you and Bartrand helped the world realize what kind of danger we’re in. The Wardens aren’t looking in to it, or Corypheus. But Morrigan and the Hero of Ferelden met the Architect. If any of these Magisters are out there…we’d be in this situation eventually.”

-:-:-:-:-

That night in the Fade, Ixchel and Solas were on the vast silent plain, where he had once removed his vallaslin. But the plains around them were the black, hard ground of the Blighted wastes to the west.

Ixchel was far away from Solas, on a patch of ground that held no taint. He was but a silhouette in the dark, but she could see that he was dressed as the general, the leader—Fen’Harel in his golden armor, wolf pelt across his shoulder, coat fluttering in the cold, poisonous wind.

As Ixchel walked toward him, the ground beneath her feet returned to a non-Blighted state, and the more it seemed that his silhouette morphed back to what she was more comfortable with. He did not look at her, but continued to stare out at the wasteland.

“Is it worse than it would have been?” he asked. His words were whipped away on the wind, faint, as though he were still at a distance even as he stood beside her.

Ixchel hugged herself in the cold. “Sometimes there are only terrible choices left,” she said softly. “And…unless you tell me otherwise… The Archdemons...the Magisters...they have made it spread so far.”

“I do not know if they are consequences, or inevitabilities,” he replied. Then, he looked back at her in the moonlight. “The Blight is not something you smugly outsmart, I have learned.”

“Is that what you want to do?” she asked. “Cure the Blight?”

Solas reached for her, but his hand moved slowly, and it stopped short of her cheek. His fingers shook. “That would be impossibly ambitious, _arasha_.”

She took his hand and pressed a kiss into his palm. “But that does not make it any less worthy, Solas.”


	98. Still Ruins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/27/20

They did not find the laboratory in the Fade, but rather on their excursion the next day. They were still a day’s journey from Adamant, and Ixchel was scouting ahead when Cassandra pointed. “A spire?”

“Hmm,” Solas said. They ventured closer, and Solas touched Ixchel’s arm. “That is a focusing device, not unlike the artifacts we have found to strengthen the Veil,” he said. “Yet another facet of our history, adopted by Tevinter. But perhaps it is a sign that we have found Dorian’s research facility.”

“Shall we fetch him, then?” Ixchel asked.

“Maybe see if its’ crawling with ‘Vints first,” Bull said. “If they’re too much for us, maybe we shouldn’t tell Dorian until we have the reinforcements to take it.”

“Good idea.”

They ventured closer, with Varric and Solas creeping slightly ahead to perform some quiet reconnaissance. Upon their return, Varric looked even more troubled. “Seems completely empty,” he said. “It’s just _too_ quiet.”

“The Veil is exceptionally troubled here,” Solas said. “It is more than thin…yet it feels like no rift we have encountered thus far. Who knows what the ancient Magisters experimented with in this place?”

“Let’s get Dorian then,” Ixchel said. “He’s likely to have a bit better of an idea.”

So they returned to the eluvian and Solas went to fetch their resident Tevinter mage. In the meantime, Ixchel outlined the safe passage they’d found for Lace, Cullen, and the caravan, and explained the hopefully short diversion they were about to take.

“Be safe,” Lace said darkly. “I don’t like the sound of that at all.”

Dorian rejoined them, and Ixchel was actually almost surprised at how appropriately dressed he was for the excursion. Bull voiced it clearly: “Huh. Here I thought I was going to have to hold your trains like a bridesmaid.”

“Yes, yes… Personally, _I_ will never understand why Qunari warriors spend all their time running around bare-chested.”

Bull snorted. “Thought you’d appreciate that.”

Dorian sniffed, twirled his staff, and started walking. “Enjoy your sun burn!”

Upon reaching the ruins, Dorian confirmed what Solas had supposed: “Ah, yes. There are a few modern versions of these at the Circle in Minrathous. Helps keep the buildings up without needing the constant attention of a hundred mages.” He pointed at it. “Early version. I doubt this building floated.”

“Do you have a date?” she wondered.

“Oh, Maker no,” Dorian said. “Post-conquest of Arlathan.” He shrugged with a wry smile. “The outer architecture really doesn’t scream ‘we painted over the Elvhen sigils with blood.’”

Solas’s ear twitched under his hood, and Ixchel bit back a small smile. “Maybe we’ll find something more helpful inside.”

There was an old, weak blood magic seal on the front doors, which Solas took care of by using his magic to scoop away the earth that had soaked up the blood in the first place. With its foundation scattered in a nearby pool of water, the barrier dissolved.

As Ixchel put out her hand to open the door, the Anchor flared in her palm. The magic fluttered up her wrist and into her elbow like electricity—not painful, but startling.

“Whoa,” Varric said. “You alright?”

She looked over her shoulder at her companions with wide eyes. “Yeah, it didn’t even hurt. It just…reacted.”

Solas’s face was hard. “Perhaps you should not go first.”

She hesitated. There had been a time when she would have pushed on herself out of spite. But she had become a slightly more cautious woman over the years, and she stepped aside to let Bull go first, his axe at the ready. Ixchel drew her great sword and prepared to activate it on a moment’s notice.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said immediately when the door opened. “What the fuck.”

She peeked past his broad side, and she had nearly the same reaction. A _massive_ rift hung suspended and utterly motionless at the center of the entrance hall, and it was surrounded by demons. A Despair demon was in mid-air, caught summoning giant ice crystals all around it. Even the frost in the air had been caught in the frozen bubble of time. A Greater Terror was bowed over a body, head flung back; a spray of arterial blood flew through the air, but had never finished its fall.

There were countless other signs of havoc and bloodshed, all preserved perfectly in a frozen moment.

“Ah, so some ancient Tevinter decided to try and alter time,” Dorian said, disappointed. “Utterly unsurprised.”

“That means no one will stop us from rifling through their notes, right?” Varric offered. “Look on the bright side.”

Cassandra picked her way carefully through the chaos, her eyes never leaving the Despair demon right below the rift. “I do not understand how this is possible,” she said slowly.

“Which part? Time magic in general, or that we can walk through here unaffected?” Dorian asked.

“All of it,” Cassandra admitted.

Ixchel had remained in the doorway, drinking in the sight as though it were a diorama. But when she took her first step into the room—she felt a ripple that tore at something deep within her, as though a dragon had landed in front of her, or a Qunari shock trooper had smacked a hammer into the ground: the shock wave of it rocked her and sent her staggering.

Solas was immediately beside her. “What is it?”

She clutched at her chest; her heart raced, but it was more than her _heart_ that ached, more than her insides, even. She felt as though something in her had _splintered_ along fault lines like she had never felt before. Ixchel opened her mouth to speak, but in her ears her voice echoed as though she were in an underwater cavern. “I can’t explain it,” she said.

From the way her companions’ eyes all widened as she spoke indicated that perhaps they heard the same strange echo.

Ixchel took another step into the room—and this time, it didn’t hurt, but it was still jarring. She heard her footsteps echo as though more than one of herself were walking at once. It echoed _inside her head,_ and for some reason with every step, she had to fight herself to put another foot forward; it felt almost as though she might be stepping off a precipice, or that the floor might drop out from beneath her before she set her foot down.

“I’m fine,” she said through her teeth. “Go gather some info.”

Bull stayed beside her, axe at the ready, eying the Despair demons while the others split up briefly to examine the hall, but they found very little except for one of the ancient Elvhen Veil artifacts. Solas waited to activate it until they had all gathered, in case it caused time to flow again—but it did not.

“Time is well and truly stifled here,” Dorian observed.

“Do we _want_ that to change?” Bull grumbled.

Dorian glanced at Solas, whose face remained carefully schooled. “This kind of magic…should remain purely theoretical, for the catastrophic tears it _necessarily_ creates in the Veil,” Dorian said. “Though it seems this might have been opened centuries ago, who knows what repercussions it has on the strength of the Veil in the area?”

Bull groaned. “Ugh, that means we need to mess with it, huh.”

Ixchel waved the Anchor slowly through the air. “Yeah, ‘cause this doesn’t seem to want to take hold,” she said. “There’s got to be something else. Alexius needed his amulet for his time magic. Maybe there’s a nexus, a foci of some kind?”

“Very astute, _mula,”_ Dorian said.

Ixchel leaned on Solas’s arm as they walked into the next chamber. Empty cages hung from the ceiling in the wings of the room, over massive pits that Ixchel imagined might have once channeled blood into other chambers down below.

When they stepped out into the next courtyard, the first thing Ixchel realized was that there _was no wind._ Like in the entrance hall, there were demons everywhere, frozen, engaged in a massacre of ancient Tevinter mages and what appeared to be a handful of slaves. Ixchel’s skin crawled with the buzz of magic that she could not see, could not hear—and she suddenly understood what Cole had said about the song being _wrong_. This was a note played but never completed, waiting for the rest of the song to go on, but just—just wrong.

A man was frozen mid-air, being thrown from a building by a Terror demon. Shades of Sloth were paused mid-slug along the paths. But even though the demons and the humans had all been frozen, the building itself was ruined. It had not been spared the passage of time.

Her companions split up again, though Solas remained with her. She was silent, but she was trying to come up with words to describe how she felt. “It’s not just the Anchor,” was all she could tell him.

Solas gave her a pensive look. “I believe it is,” he disagreed. “I do not know if the time magic was the _goal_ of the Magisters, a consequence…or a fail-safe. The Veil was caught in the act of tearing, like a knife caught in a snag of fabric.” His brow was troubled. “The Anchor is meant to tear, or to seal, and the magic that _stopped_ the tear in the Veil here might be affecting anything that would have a similar power.”

“That makes sense,” she supposed.

After about an hour of searching, her companions returned with armfuls of documents. Dorian held up a battered and blood-soaked journal. “It seems they were trying to open a permanent rift from which to channel power from the raw Fade,” he said, mouth grim and utterly unamused from beneath his mustache. “Someone was smart enough to realize the uncontrollable nature of such a _flood_ of magic, and redirected the power into sealing the event itself.” He gestured with the book toward the Anchor. “I suppose that would give you a good benchmark for exactly how much magical power is contained in that mark, to be able to close rifts on the daily.”

“As for the keystone or foci,” Cassandra said, “it seems that our _hero_ locked himself in the central chamber. I have never seen a door like it. I cannot imagine how to open it…but whatever he used, it must be within.”

Ixchel nodded. “Solas, would you take a look? Maybe you’ve seen something before.”

Dorian stayed with her while Bull, Cassandra, and Varric went with Solas to see about opening the door.

“The question is, what were they trying to _do_ with all that power from the Fade?” Dorian mused. “By the way, these ruins are from before the First Blight.”

“Maybe they were trying to breach the Veil just as the Magisters Sidereal did,” she offered.

He tipped his head. “Quite likely. Which makes me think that our friend Corypheus is looking into other ways to enter the Fade than your Anchor—but perhaps hasn’t quite figured out the eluvians yet.”

“That’s good,” she said. “And we definitely shouldn’t let the Venatori get their hands on a whisper of this place. That means clearing it out.”

“Will you be able to fight like…this?” he asked hesitantly.

Ixchel shrugged. “Maybe I should put cotton in my ears,” she mused. “It’s just really disorienting. I think I could kill a demon, though.”

“Perhaps we should _leave_ the demons for the Venatori,” Dorian suggested. “Get time flowing and run?”

“Gotta seal the rift,” Ixchel reminded him.

“Ah, yes. Maybe Bull can run you past it—”

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra called. “We have it!”

Dorian helped her come over to the door, and Solas showed her with some excitement that some shards, similar to the ones they had found throughout their journeys, acted as keys for the door when assembled all together. Cassandra brought over the last piece, and the door came to life.

It opened into a gruesome scene.

“Oh,” Dorian said softy, “that’s a _lot_ of blood.”

“A staff?” Cassandra asked. “Is that the foci?”

“I would think so,” Dorian said..

“This place feels _so wrong,”_ Varric said.

“I agree,” Ixchel said under her breath She winced at the distortion in her voice, which was worse here. “That means we’re in for a fight once we remove it.”

“I see this shaking down two ways, Champ.” Bull crossed his arms and jutted his chin into the room. “We could wait for them to funnel here, take them out one by one, or we could have Solas Fade-step in there, grab the staff, and run back out, and then we try and get you to that rift as soon as possible.”

“There is no way to know how many more demons will replenish their ranks out of that rift,” Cassandra said. “Perhaps you should wait there, and then Solas could take the staff—”

“That is a sound strategy, Seeker,” Solas said. He nodded at Ixchel. “Go. Closing the rift should be our priority—I will join you quickly.”

“Be safe,” Ixchel said.

“Want a lift?” Bull offered. Ixchel sighed and nodded. He crouched for her to hop up on his shoulders, and that was infinitely more comfortable than trying to walk all the way back to the rift.

Ixchel had just put her feet down on the ground when another shock wave washed over her and sent her stumbling. She sucked in a huge breath and found that it came easily—sharp and cold as Despair colored the air. The things that were pulling apart inside her slotted back into place, and the Anchor flared, ready to seal and sunder.

Dorian’s fire took out the disoriented Despair demon quickly, and her companions formed a shield around her as she disrupted the rift to stun the army of wraiths and shades that had converged on them as the only living things in the whole ruin. In the chaos that ensued, they tried to deal with the wraiths as quickly as possible, and for a moment it seemed that no more demons might swarm out of the rift—so Ixchel extended her hand to seal it.

The heavy doors slammed open behind them, and Solas shot into the hall, pursued by five Terror demons.

“Keep ‘em off me!” Ixchel called.

Of course, with the Terrors’ ability to teleport right beneath her feet, that was a somewhat impossible task. Fortunately, she had added a gorget to her armor, and now their usual tactics of trying to rip out her throat only won them some broken teeth and her sword through their chests.

When they had, finally, cleared the ruin of demons and sealed the rift, Ixchel let out a sigh of relief. She took a seat on a bannister while Dorian and Solas made academic comments about the magic used in this place. Varric joined her.

“You alright, Sunshine?”

She nodded, panting a little. “Yeah. As soon as the time seal broke, I was fine.”

“Sure was weird,” he said slowly. “Man… I didn’t think stuff like that was even possible.”

“It really shouldn’t be,” she agreed with a nervous laugh, because she had caught Dorian and Solas both looking at her a little too intently.

-:-:-:-:-

Dorian and Solas took the artifacts and documents they had found back to Skyhold through the eluvian while Ixchel and Cullen went over the agenda for the coming day. Cullen would split off with a group of soldiers to go meet Rylen and their troops, who were stationed far enough away from Adamant that they might not be noticed by Adamant’s occupants. Ixchel knew enough of the fortress that she could tell him what to expect about the front gate and the defenses on the battlements.

“The way I see it, we have two probable scenarios,” Ixchel said as they leaned over a hand-drawn sketch of the fortress and the plain in front of it. “We get there, there’s been no word from the Wardens. I’ll take my people and we’ll sneak in to meet with Thom and Sutherland. Then, either things go right, or things go wrong.”

She gave Cullen a smile, because that had made him chuckle.

“If I think we can handle things, I’ll still send Rat out, and you should march on the fort. If I think we need intervention immediately, Dorian will send up a flare. You’ve seen his signatures.”

Cullen nodded. “In either scenario, there will be some delay time between the signal and when we can reach you,” he warned.

“I think we’ll have enough clear-headed Wardens to keep us alive until you do,” she said. She tapped her fist lightly on the map. “There were about twenty in the group we rescued. Then there’s Stroud, and Sutherland’s crew…and hopefully, again, Calpernia’s heard about what’s happened at the Shrine of Dumat.” She gave Cullen a grim look. “If I’m lucky, she’ll just…leave.”

“I’d rather not rely on luck,” Cullen admitted. “Maker go with you, Ixchel.”

She gave him a softer look. “Thanks, Cullen. Are you doing alright?”

His face had grown more haggard over the past few days—and he had already looked worn. He lowered his voice. “I’m trying to stay hydrated. The…shaking…gets worse in the heat.”

Ixchel put her hand on his elbow without thinking. “You’ve made it so far, _lethallin,”_ she said firmly. “Do what you must.”

His gaze dropped to the map, and then he closed his eyes. “I just wish I knew there was an end, to it,” he said.

And Ixchel _knew,_ she _knew_ that hopeless place. She felt that strain in his voice, in her own soul. She wished he had anything to tell him that might make it better.

“We’re here for you whether there is, or isn’t,” she promised at last. She bit her lip. “Your Maker things don’t make me feel better, so maybe this won’t make you feel better…but… _Mala suledin nadas._ 'Now, you must endure.'” She squeezed his elbow. “Half of the time when people say it to me, it doesn't help. But...it's true. And we're enduring, together."

“ _Mala suledin nadas,”_ he repeated quietly. His brow furrowed as he tried to shape the soft consonants and rounded vowels, so foreign to his Fereldan tongue. He tried it again, and then his eyes flickered up to her. A blush sprang across his cheeks, beneath the new sunburn he had earned here in the Approach. “I...understand, that talk of the Maker would not resonate with you. But... Does it bother you? The…Chant?”

There was something else there, in his question, that made her heart ache. She found that she could not hold his eye.

She looked down at the sand at her feet instead. She had done everything in her power to seize hold of the power of the worship of her, and twist it back around into the truth. She always had. Yet after Adamant…even after the tragedies that had befallen the endeavor there…even after all her doubt… The worship had only grown. Her myth had only slipped more beyond her control. As in so many matters, the Adamant that lay ahead of her would test her ability to change that.

“The more they sing my name like it’s part of the Chant,” she said, “the more I must insist I’m not Andrastian.”

Cullen swallowed hard. “Ah.”

Ixchel scuffed her boot in the ground. “I know you don’t mean it that way, Cullen. That’s not what it means to you. But…”

“I suppose don’t really understand,” he admitted. “It’s a good thing, what they believe you to be…”

“But I’m _my own good thing,”_ she insisted. She forced herself to look up at him. “We are brave people, swallowing our fears and fighting for what’s right. We gain our strength to do that from different places. People see the Maker’s hand in my actions and excuse anything and everything I do as the Maker’s will. And someday, they’ll use the Maker to justify lightening my skin, stripping me of my vallaslin, and hiding my ears.”

She held his gaze and just forced herself to breathe, for a moment, to let her words sink in.

“Thank you for explaining that to me, Inquisitor,” he said. “I’m reminded of your speech in Haven, in front of the mob… I will try to think about what I can do with the rank and file, in light of that.”

And though there was something sweet about that consideration, too, it still felt like she had placed even more distance between them. Perhaps that was what he needed, for it suddenly seemed easier for him to look at her.

And she hated it.


	99. Of Mice and Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/27/20

They reached Adamant by midday next, and Ixchel was no less prepared for the sight of it than she had been when she saw it after it had been destroyed. She stood on the hilltop lookout above the forward camp and rubbed her left elbow meditatively as she drank in the sight of the massive fortress.

“Stroud came late last night,” Lace said as she came up to join her. “Then he, Sutherland and Black—I mean Rainier—went around the side of the fortress and found their entrance, I suppose. No Venatori or Wardens have been seen _leaving_ since then, so…”

“Good, good,” Ixchel said distractedly. “I’m glad we’ve kept a tight schedule. Seems like we’ve still got time.”

“I… A raven came last night.” Lace handed Ixchel a tightly-rolled scroll. “Small like this, it’s usually urgent.”

Ixchel nearly tore it in her rush to get it open. “Fuck,” she whispered.

The message was Leliana’s summary of a message from Jester, her agent in Wycome.

_City has a human-only plague. No one allowed out of city, to keep it quiet. Nobles blame the elves, claim it’s retribution for burning of Halamshirala alienage. Antoine using outside Dalish to deflect violence away from Wycome alienage. Misguided._

_My agents cannot pursue leads (thrown out, ‘knife-ear,’ etc.). Deshanna asked for noble infiltrator. J. sending sympathetic mask to spy._

_Lavellan safe, protected, hiding._

_L._

She sighed. She still had a clan.

Lace looked up at her with deep concern. “Is your clan safe?” she asked.

“For now,” Ixchel said.

The scout nodded. “They’ve mustered the top brass to be sure of it,” she informed Ixchel. “Charter’s coordinating.” She dropped her eyes back to the fortress in front of them, then down a little.

“What is it?” Ixchel asked, sensing that there was something Lace wanted to say.

“You said something to Charter.” Lace hesitated again. “After Butcher died. Well, I don’t expect you to remember, but he was one of Leliana’s agents who uncovered—”

“I remember,” Ixchel said quietly.

A small smile flickered across Lace’s face. “Right. Of course you remember him. Because you said that if there was any time Sister Leliana wasn’t going to help with something to do with the safety of the agents, you’d personally intervene.” That smile grew a little, then faltered. “It kind of shook Charter—not the Butcher thing, but…to hear you cast doubt on your own spymaster, you know? But then we were talking about it, and…it’s so jarring, to have you out here. To have you be the one to fight alongside us.”

Lace gestured with her hand to mimic Ixchel sealing a rift. _“The Herald of Andraste_ is supposed to have her Left Hand, and her polished nobles, and her knights. Like, the Nightingale doesn’t even do the field work anymore, she just plays god with all of the agents. And I understand why, but…”

Lace clasped her hands behind her back and sighed. “When it’s just the big things—the Breach, the Elder One, these big Elvhen mysteries, the Empress…it’s easy to forget that. But when you’re out here, you’re not the Herald of Andraste. You’re one of _us.”_

Ixchel put her arm around Lace’s shoulders and rested her cheek against the dwarf’s temple. Lace leaned into her after a moment.

“How’d you know that’s exactly what I needed to hear?” she asked.

“You don’t pay me to stand around and _not_ listen to things I’m not supposed to hear,” Lace said lightly.

Ixchel snorted and gave Lace’s shoulders a squeeze. “I’m not gonna change,” she promised. “I was born and raised in dirt. I’ll die and be buried in the dirt…just like everyone else.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying,” Lace said. “You’re one of us. And if you’re the Hero of Thedas…so are we all.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel gathered with her companions beneath one of their sand shelters that afternoon as they waited for the cover of night. It was certainly the calm before the storm: Solas and Dorian were playing chess with a small road set Varric had found somewhere on the road with Hawke; Cassandra was sharpening her blade with the whetsone Thom had given her so long ago now; Bull and Varric were writing and chiming in to Solas and Dorian’s game with heckling comments and tips every now and then.

And Ixchel sat, ostensibly with Cassandra, ostensibly to work on her armor…but instead she found herself staring into the darkness as though her vision could pierce the sand dune and see through to Adamant itself.

“It appears I have won,” Solas said sympathetically. “Again.” He held up his hands as he leaned back from the board. “I am afraid, barring miraculous improvement, you will make poor sport for the Iron Bull.”’

Dorian chuckled. “Oh, I don’t expect it to be a _long_ game, just an interesting one.” He gave Bull a smirk. “Believe me, Solas, Bull and I have far more interesting ways to pass the time.”

If Ixchel had had her wits about her, she would have anticipated what came next. As it stood, she was thoroughly distracted until she heard her name.

“—could take a page or two out of the Inquisitor’s book, huh?” Bull was saying.

Ixchel looked over her shoulder to find him, Dorian, and Varric grinning at her. She didn’t really know the context of what was going on, except for the fact that Solas was trying very, very hard not to grin, and there was a blush spreading across his face that reached his ears.

She narrowed her eyes at them all. “Oh? The savage Qunari wants a lesson from the Dalish savage?” she asked. “Here’s what you tell him, Dorian: _isalan alas’nira aron fen’en.”_

She kept her face completely schooled as Solas choked on whatever breath he had been taking. Bull gave him a surprised but thoroughly entertained grin even though he didn’t know what she had said, but Dorian took a moment longer to roughly translate the Elvhen dialect.

Cassandra looked between her and Solas with confusion. “Is that a Dalish joke?” she asked.

“Seeker, a Dalish joke is like… ‘What’s a hunter’s favorite game?’”

Ixchel rolled her eyes. “Duck, duck, goose.”

Varric chuckled. “See?”

“Then what is it?” Cassandra asked again.

Dorian had, by then, come to his answer and got a devilish grin. “‘Fuck me like a dog,’ Seeker,” he said matter-of-factly.

Ixchel thought that Cassandra’s head might _pop_ for how quickly the blood rushed to her cheeks, and she gasped at Ixchel—and then jumped out of the way, because Bull had said, “Well, if you say so,” and practically picked Dorian up by the scruff of the neck and left.

Varric’s laughter rocked him so deeply, he nearly fell off his stool.

“It’s much prettier than that,” Ixchel said primly. “‘I lust to dance as wolves do.’”

“Oh, like that is _so different!”_ Cassandra said, rolling her eyes. “No one talks like that!”

“Unless they want to—” but Varric couldn’t finish, because he was still laughing.

Solas’s facade had cracked completely, and he was grinning to himself as he packed up the folding chess board. Ixchel smiled at him fondly, though he did not see her do so.

She touched her chest, where she had tucked the note about Clan Lavellan against her heart. She had to remind herself that not everything unplanned must be a tragedy.

-:-:-:-:-

They donned pale cloaks and left as soon as it was dark. Moving quickly as clouds passed over the moons, they made their way down the dunes and across the plains toward Adamant. Its mighty walls rose high up above them, and when they drew close, its shadow fell across them in the deepest of darkness.

Ixchel found the secret entrance to the cistern, and it wasn’t long before she found Rat, who led her to Sutherland. They had found a dry spot deep within the fortress’s plumbing network and set up a small, silent camp there.

“Stroud and Rainier’s found a spot to spy in,” Sutherland said in a whisper. “Thom’s dressed like a Warden so he’s least likely to get noticed. When we got here, the Wardens couldn’t seem to find Commander Clarel to warn her.”

“Not a good sign,” Varric muttered.

Ixchel hummed quietly as she thought to herself. No, it wasn’t a good sign.

She instructed Bull and Cassandra—her least subtle agents—to remain there with Sutherland, Voth, and Rat while she went to talk to Thom. In the event of a catastrophe, they were to rush the gates and get them open from the inside while Dorian signaled the Inquisition.

But hopefully she’d be back momentarily.

Shayd took Ixchel, Dorian, Solas, and Varric with her up to Thom’s hiding spot. They exited the plumbing network and entered a drain shaft, which Shayd climbed up first. After a moment of listening, she wiggled her fingers through the grate at the top.

Someone outside lifted the grate quietly, and Shayd dropped back down the ladder to let Ixchel up.

Stroud helped pull her out of the shaft and immediately began whispering.

“Maker-good timing,” he murmured. “They’ve got the mages on rotation up on the battlements. The warriors are all corralled in the central courtyard, in their camp. The warriors definitely are getting antsy, but…” His face darkened. “Their goal is so lofty, I’m afraid they’d agree to anything.”

“And what _is_ that?” Dorian whispered back, having climbed out of the pipe on his own. His hair was hardy mussed. “I know they’ve all heard their Calling or what have you, but why would they _agree_ to binding demons into an army?”

“They think they’re all about to die,” Stroud said. “They’re afraid it portends a double Blight, with the last two Archdemons. So they want to fight through the Deep Roads and reach the dragons before they can get corrupted and wake.”

“What?” Solas hissed. “That’s madness! For all we know, killing the Old Gods could make things even worse!”

Ixchel gave him a sharp look.

“Those fools and duty,” he continued under his breath. “Responsibility is _not_ expertise. Action is not inherently superior to inaction…”

Now he had everyone staring at him. He looked away. “Forgive me. The entire idea is…unnerving!”

“Well, that much is true,” Dorian agreed. “Though I think for _wildly_ different reasons.”

Ixchel glowered at all of them. “They have been _tricked,_ remember?” she whispered furiously. “Shut up.” She looked back at Stroud. “And Calpernia?”

“The Venatori are all in the belly of the place,” he said. “Calpernia among them, I believe. A raven came this morning—the only bird I’ve seen out here ‘cept the vultures.” He glanced at the door to the tiny chamber they were in. “Blackwalll went to investigate. He should be back shortly.”

Ixchel exhaled slowly. “How were the people you came back with?” she asked. “Optimistic?”

Stroud clenched his jaw. “Only in the most cynical way possible. The talk of the Warden warriors being used as the blood sacrifices for the Warden mages has set our brothers and sisters against one another, though the conflict has not come to a head, yet. But with the Mage-Templar war fresh in their memories, even if we prevent this tragedy, there will be divisions for years to come!”

“Tch.” Solas crossed his arms.

Ixchel kept her eyes on Stroud. “We _will_ prevent this tragedy,” she said firmly. “One way or another. What will come next is likely to be up to you, Stroud.”

He nodded gravely.

“—and these _runes!_ No one has written in these…since…!”

Ixchel and her companions jumped as a shrill voice rang out in the hallway outside their hiding place. Immediately, Dorian and Solas fanned out to the corners of the room, staves at the ready, while Varric quietly primed Bianca. Stroud’s hand flickered to his sword.

Ixchel held her breath as Calpernia walked by.

“He made so many promises! And every one, a lie! _Venhedis kaffan vas!”_

The unmistakable sound of flames crackled loudly just outside the door.

“He was to give Tevinter a true leader! If Corypheus would misuse me, he’d misuse them, too! I was blind!”

Dorian gave Ixchel a sharp look, eyebrows shooting up.

“What shall we do?” a second voice asked in a loud whisper. “The Magisters within the Venatori will claw and kill for your role and the Elder One’s favor. They will no doubt slaughter us all the moment we try to flee!”

Calpernia’s heeled shoes clicked on the stone as she paced a quick circuit back and forth. “Nrgh! And the Wardens will certainly not distinguish between us and the rest of the Venatori! I can’t believe… I would see Tevinter _reborn—_ no slave would suffer as I have! Why would he not value that?!”

Before her allies could do anything except raise a barrier over her, Ixchel strode to the door and swung it open.

Calpernia rounded on her, and then the shock of seeing the Inquisitor herself seemingly overrode any knee-jerk reaction she might otherwise have had. She seemed completely unprepared for a confrontation, let alone _this one._

Her hair spilled across her shoulders in tight curls, and there were red marks on her fair face from where she had scratched herself in her distress. She wore a strange leather outfit that immediately caught Ixchel’s eye and tickled at something familiar in the back of her mind, but she kept her gaze locked firmly on Calpernia’s.

But oh, this girl was…young. As was the girl who stood behind her, dressed in the armor of a Venatori zealot. Ixchel couldn’t help but wonder if she was even twenty.

“Give the Venatori and the Wardens a common enemy,” Ixchel said evenly. “Flee in the chaos, Calpernia.”

“You mock me, Inquisitor,” Calpernia said, nostrils flaring. She crushed the ashes of her missive in a shaking fist. “As if you’d let me walk away.”

“It’s a good idea!” Dorian called. “Reform, I mean!”

Calpernia’s wide eyes flickered over Ixchel’s shoulder to Dorian. “You think it impossible, Magister?” she snapped. “A threat to your way of life—”

“Impossible?” Dorian snorted. “Perhaps. But that does not mean we should not try! Maker knows we could use a few more agitators back home.”

Calpernia looked back at Ixchel and narrowed her eyes.

“He means it, and I mean it. I’m here to take the Wardens away from Corypheus,” she said. “I know about the false Calling. I know about the demon army, and the Nightmare. And I’m here to off you your freedom.”

“What?!” Stroud barked behind her.

Ixchel stood impassively and stared at Calpernia

The leader of the Venatori clenched her hands at her sides. “The moment you show up, any one of the Venatori lieutenants will summon the red lyrium dragon,” she said. “It will smite any who flee this place!”

“Good thing I’m well-equipped to slay some dragons,” Ixchel said blithely. “And brought my army.”

“You…” Calpernia took a step back. “My spies never…”

Ixchel tapped the side of her head by way of explanation. “Now, if you have any hope of escaping here, it’s under the cover of night without raising a fuss,” she said, “or it’s under cover fire from the Inquisition. I don’t know how many of your loyalists you hope to free from this place, but if there’s more than, oh, three? I’d say your chances of getting out of here without the rest of the Venatori chasing them down and having some fun with your freed sleeves is pretty high with the first route.”

Calpernia had to physically turn her back on Ixchel. The Inquisitor could see from the other woman’s face that they were communicating to one another with their eyes alone.

Behind Ixchel, Stroud took a step forward. “This woman was about to _destroy_ the Grey Wardens!” he rumbled. “And you would let her _free?”_

Ixchel turned, freely giving Calpernia her back to stab, should the woman care to. “The _Wardens,”_ she said icily, “are about to kill half of their ranks in a desperate and vain hope to stop the Blights forever, regardless of the fact that the Blight _disease_ won’t end, and unless you kill every brood mother, you’ll always have darkspawn! You are all fools—just wearing different armor, trying to save different people.”

She held out one hand for her allies, and one hand for Calpernia, who had turned. “Now, are we going to fight, or are we going to free these people from Corypheus’s tyranny?” she demanded of both.

Calpernia’s face was white with rage. “What is your actual _plan_ , Inquisitor?”

“I’ll send a runner to muster my army,” Ixchel said. “They come over the ridge, you tell the Venatori to prepare themselves. Say damn the Wardens. In the meantime, we’ll have one of our people talk to the Wardens and convince them not to do this ritual. The Wardens can start fighting with the Venatori, and then you can escape out the back.”

“These Wardens are _desperate_ ,” Calpernia said. “I do not know what you can do to convince them—”

“Oh, just say Corypheus’s name in front of Clarel,” Ixchel said grimly. “She’ll know.”

Calpernia raised her chin. “I will do what I can,” she said. “I do not see that I have much choice.”

Ixchel shrugged. “Keep your people safe,” she said, and then waited for Calpernia and her agent to leave.

Solas stepped between Stroud and Ixchel. “That is the woman who fed red lyrium to Cassandra’s Seekers,” he said gravely. “Former slave though she might be, she was willing to enslave _these_ Wardens to her master’s will and cause untold suffering in those who are not her own people.”

Ixchel nearly raised her eyebrows at that, considering who was speaking, but she scowled instead. “Forcing a confrontation will just make it harder for us to reach the Wardens, and they’re my priority,” she said. “With the Venatori’s leader toppled, there’s a power vacuum. The Magisters will kill each other to gain Corypheus’s favor, like she said.”

“I do not disagree with you necessarily, _lethallan_ ,” he said, and she tried not to bristle at the suddenly careful tone he had adopted. They were in a war, and not every conversation needed to be about love, did it? When had she gotten soft? “I am simply considering how Warden Stroud and Cassandra will interpret your decisions.”

Ixchel looked at Stroud.

He sighed angrily. “If the Wardens are free, then they can be persuaded,” he said. “If they are enslaved…then they must be destroyed. I know which one I would prefer.”

“If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that Wardens can justify _anything_ ,” Varric said. “Cassandra? Not so much.”

“Cassandra's a Seeker,” Ixchel said. “She can seek Calpernia after this if vengeance is what she wants. Our priority has to be Corypheus, and preventing _more_ suffering, not exacting punishments. Not ‘til this war is won.”

Her companions nodded at her, each more grave than the last. “Let’s send Rat, then,” she said. “I’ll wait here for Thom.”

-:-:-:-:-

Thom returned soon after her companions had left to coordinate with Sutherland and the crew down below. He slipped surreptitiously into their store room and nodded at Ixchel. “They finally reached Clarel,” he said. “She’s quite relieved to have learned about Corypheus’s influence _before_ sacrificing every Warden warrior in that damn ritual.”

“Good,” Ixchel said. “What do they plan now?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Blackwall said with a curled lip.

Ixchel and Stroud glanced at each other in concern.

“Telling the Wardens that she’s led them astray will just strengthen the divides in their ranks,” he said. “But if it’s revealed as a trick, that she’s as taken by surprise as the rest of them—she’s hoping to unite them all against the Venatori.” He sighed. “She knows you’re here. She’s going to keep playing along with the Venatori until you swoop in to do the big reveal—with your armies to back up any fighting that might erupt.”

Ixhel ran a hand across her face. Stroud shook his head. “Perhaps Varric is right,” he murmured. “Wardens can justify anything.”

“I do not envy Clarel, that much is certain,” Ixchel said. “Fortunately, the Wardens aren't my mess to clean up. Alright. Rat’s being sent out to Cullen now. Is there any way the rest of us can get into a position to spring on Clarel and the Venatori?”

Thom nodded. “The mages you rescued at the tower have arranged to be on the next guard rotation. They won’t say anything if we go ‘round their way. Should be right above the central courtyard.”

“Alright. Then as soon as the others get back, let’s get to our places.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel crouched at the foot of one of the Warden mages and peered down into the courtyard, her shining armor covered by her dusty cloak. “So it’s just the few of you and Clarel who know?” she whispered.

The Warden fingered his staff inconspicuously. “Mhm.”

“You think the Wardens will realize we’re on their side?”

“Mhm!”

Ixchel set her mouth in a grim line. “Alright.”

She glanced back to where Sutherland and his crew were positioned on a southeastern battlement. She could only tell they were there because she had known to look. Shayd had placed herself in a position to see the army coming over the ridge in the distance. Ixchel was waiting for either her or Calpernia to signal their arrival; Sutherland's crew would then leap down to defend and open the front gates, while the rest of the Inquisition and their allies fought the main host of Venatori. 

The Wardens, barring the mages on patrol at the moment, were slowly gathering in the courtyard. Clarel and Calpernia were nowhere to be seen, but the Venatori were also beginning to gather to the back of the fortress; Ixchel could see their pointed cowls and fluttering robes on the higher battlements, and that made her nervous. She was fairly confident that she and her companions were well-hidden and camouflaged in to the dusty stone…but the Venatori had a clear vantage point to spot them.

Or to strike at them, in the split-second when they would reveal themselves.

Ixchel saw Calpernia, then. Her hair had been pulled back into a severe set of buns, but the strange robes she wore were obvious even at a distance. She stood on the upper battlements and looked out across the dark plain.

Clarel appeared next—almost suddenly—in the middle of the courtyard. “Wardens!” she called. “It is time! In our unending war with the Blights, we shall have our victory!”

The Venatori began to crowd around Calpernia to watch.

“Each of us has heard our Calling. Each of us has felt the fear of the end—the fear of a world left vulnerable without its Wardens! Today we face that fear. Today many of you will make the final sacrifice, knowing that the ones who remain will join you soon, once we have triumphed over the Archdemons!”

Clarel raised her staff, and most of the Wardens saluted. Several of them began to back away.

A bright light flashed in Ixchel’s peripheral vision; Shayd signaling the arrival of the Inquisition on the horizon.

“Mistress Calpernia—look!” a voice cried from on high.

Calpernia’s skirts swirled as she rounded on the Venatori amassed behind her. “The Inquisition!” she shouted. “Venatori, prepare for battle! The Wardens must see this ritual through!”

Ixchel scurried away from the Warden mage. She could hear the Venatori pouring down from the upper stories, undoubtedly leaving Calpernia and her loyalists with some space to move. In the meantime, Ixchel found an open space to stand in at the top of the stairs.

“We make the sacrifices no one else will!” Clarel called. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them!”

Clarel looked about quickly, trying to stall. When caught sight of Ixchel on the stairs, and a look of relief crossed her face.

 _Now or never,_ Ixchel thought, heart in her throat.

She threw back her cloak.

“Wardens!” she cried. “You have been betrayed by these Venatori! They serve Corypheus—a _darkspawn_ like no other. It is he who has put the Calling in your minds!”

“It’s true, Clarel!” a Warden mage Ixchel had rescued shouted, bursting in from a side door. “The ritual—it binds Warden minds to that monster’s will!”

There was an uproar among the Wardens as the warriors panicked, and the mages grappled with their guilt.

“These people will say anything to shake your confidence, Clarel!” Calpernia shouted from above. “These weak-minded fools would hate the Wardens for a blood sacrifice, yet they laud the Wardens who die to protect their villages and homes! They cannot know—”

“I honor your bravery, Wardens!” Ixchel bellowed. “Be brave now and fight for your freedom!

Clarel fought her way out of the central throng. All around, Ixchel could see the Venatori rushing into place—coming around corners, swords sand staves ready to attack—

“Clarel, if this is true—”

“Clarel!”

Clarel gestured violently. “We will _never_ serve the Blight! The Venatori must pay for this!”

“Fight with the Inquisition!”

Ixchel raised the chromatic great sword, and her allies sprang out of their hiding places and into battle with the unsuspecting Venatori.

Varric appeared beside her. “You can’t _write_ drama like this,” he told her, and took aim with Bianca.


	100. Here Lies the Abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/27/20

There was no giant rift.

There were no enslaved Wardens.

There was only the Venatori, and the dark.

Ixchel ran back up the battlements with Varric and charged to take down a Venatori brute flanked by two spellbinders. Her impact against the massive gladiator sent the spellbinders stumbling, and left them easy targets for Varric to take down.

Ixchel drove the greatsword through the brute’s chest with a burst of blue light, then tore it out with a slash of red, and the breastplate melted beneath her blade.

Ixchel hated war. She could not tell whose barriers settled over her. She did not know if the next person to come around a corner was friend or foe. She did not know where her allies had run off to, could not afford the time nor the attention to keep track of them and their well-beings.

Trust was already difficult for her, when she wasn’t facing life or death with every passing moment. War demanded only so much more of that from her.

“The gates are open!” a Warden shouted. “Keep them! The Inquisition comes to our aide!”

It seemed the Wardens were amassing at Adamant’s gates. Ixchel went in the opposite direction, to clear out the Venatori who might try and take the Wardens from behind. Varric fell behind in the chaos, offering cover fire for some escaping mages, but Cassandra and Thom took his place.

“The Venatori mages—” Cassandra shouted.

“I’ve only seen the warriors!” Thom said. “Where are they?!”

Ixchel’s stomach dropped through the floor. “Don’t like the sound of that!” she cried.

Dorian skidded around a corner. “Fancy meeting you here!” He laughed hysterically and cast a fireball behind him in the faces of the two zealots who had chased him.

They fought on, even as the Inquisition pressed closer outside the gates; Ixchel could hear war horns blowing nearby, and she tried to let them raise her morale. But she did not find any sign of Calpernia—or of any of the Magisters, really.

She soon found out why.

“Where is Calpernia?!”

“She has abandoned us!”

Ixchel slowed to a halt, and Cassandra, Dorian, and Thom stopped behind her. On the opposite side of a tower, a group of Magisters were shouting at one another.

“Call down the Archdemon!” one urged. “We’re calling all the mages to open a rift! If there is to be a battle, there should be enough blood to let the demon in! Cover us!”

“No! Don’t let them escape!” Ixchel ordered over her shoulder as she ran, as fast as she could. “They can’t be allowed to do this!”

But the Magisters had scattered the moment they heard her coming.

“They’re gathering back in the courtyard!” Solas shouted, suddenly appearing atop a railing above them. “They are trying to open a rift!”

“We know!” Ixchel shouted. “Hurry! Before the Archdemon—”

A loud succession of _booms_ echoed up from the tower above them. Ixchel looked glumly up at the sky, as did most of the battlefield, it seemed, if the sudden hush was any indication.

The shrill scream of the Archdemon echoed up across the plains.

Ixchel looked around at her companions. “Rift!”

She leaped over a railing and dropped down a level, right in front of an armored Venatori.

Her companions followed, with varying degrees of grace.

They plowed through as many warriors as they could and reached the central courtyard just as the first tear began form in the Veil.

“Disrupt it!” Ixchel screamed as she charged.

Someone shouted back in Tevene, but they were cut off by her blade, leaving a wet gurgle in their wake. Ixchel was a whirlwind in the midst of the spellbinders, trying to cut down as many as she could before the rift truly opened. Unfortunately, the spilled blood only seemed to empower the remaining mages.

Ixchel was thrown back as a Pride demon burst through the rift in an explosion of electricity and blood.

A Magister turned on her and raised a hand, and somehow triggered the magic in her arm to burn. She had not been prepared for the sudden agony, and she dropped to one knee before the Pride demon as the Anchor flared—

And then the scream of the Archdemon was right above them.

“FUUUUCK!” Ixchel roared.

She slammed the wild Anchor into the ground, and friends and foes alike were thrown away from the rift.

That left her alone with the Pride demon.

The magic of the Fade poured out from the Rift over her head like fog down a mountain, and with the awakened Anchor Ixchel pulled it around her in a protective shroud. Her vision swam with green light, and her limbs coursed with the burning power of its magic—and she charged at the Pride demon.

As she harried its legs from behind, never once letting its whips and charges catch her full-on, she saw her allies springing upon the prone Venatori mages to _coup de gras_ those they could before the spellbinders could even try to open the rift any more.

Solas was suddenly at her side, his arm circling her waist, and he dragged her away from the Pride demon before it could fall on her. There was a bolt in its eye.

“Close the rift!”

Ixchel rounded in his arms, her back pressed against his chest to brace herself as she sealed the tear in the Veil.

In the glimpse of the raw Fade behind it, she could see the million eyes of the Nightmare glaring at her—

And then it shut.

Solas then threw her down to the ground and put a barrier up over them as the red lyrium dragon took aim.

He pulled on the Anchor’s power without asking, and Ixchel cried out, because she could feel the Blighted breath of the dragon pressing down all around them and knew it was necessary but he was _tearing_ her arm apart nonetheless—

Her scream of pain mingled with the roar of the dragon in a shrill crescendo.

Solas rolled off of her the moment the dragon had completed its flyby and helped her to her feet. He was bleeding from a long cut on the side of his head, and the robes on his left side had been charred.

He held the Anchor in his hand and tried to siphon the excess magic out of it, but there was no time and they both knew it.

“I am so sorry,” he said bitterly.

"I know," she said, and she rounded on the courtyard. “We must draw the dragon out to the plain!” she called to her companions. “With me!”

Thus began their battle _out_ of Adamant. But her soldiers had infiltrated the fortress at last. She caught sight of Templars rushing past to intercept the Venatori mages, with cries of: _For the Inquisition!_ on their lips.

Ixchel’s arms burned with exertion as she chopped and slashed her way through Venatori mages and zealots. She knew it was only a matter of time before the Venatori ran out of reinforcements and either surrendered or tried to flee. But the red lyrium dragon could still claim a victory that night, if she did not act quickly to stop it.

She smelled burning hair and flesh and did not know if it was her own. She had blood in her mouth, and sweat dripped in her eyes, but still she pressed on. She had her closest allies around her now: Solas, Cassandra, Varric, Bull, Blackwall, and Dorian were all in this with her. If she had ever stood a chance at taking down this beast…it was now.

“To me!” she shouted at every Warden she passed.

She claimed Bull from the battlements near the gate. “Dragon!” she shouted at him, and he came running.

She hoped that with a large enough group of Blighted things, she could catch the Archdemon’s attention. “Wardens! Scatter when I tell you!” she ordered. “Inquisition—let’s take down this Blighted dragon!”

They raced out of Adamant and on to the plain. Her soldiers made way, shouting for her, roaring their support. She drew to the southwest. “Shoot at it!” she told the mages around her. “Draw it away from the fortress!”

“Here it comes!” Bull warned with a snarl.

Ixchel gripped the chromatic great sword tightly and rounded to see that, indeed, the false Archdemon was screaming toward them. Its jaws crackled with Blighted magic, and Ixchel held her breath, until the very last minute—

“Scatter!” she cried.

The Wardens all took off running out of the way, and her inner circle dove for cover, while Ixchel charged. The blast missed her by only a few yards, and the scattered earth peppered her back with blasted rock. She rolled and popped back up on her feet.

“RRRRAAAHHHHHH!” Bull roared as the dragon came swooping back.

“It’s just a dragon!” she shouted, partly to remind herself, and partly to keep the Wardens from trying to be heroes in the face of this monstrosity.

Ixchel braced herself as the dragon came to land, and the force of its body colliding with the earth, and the swell of its tattered wings, shook her. It raised its head to consider them all, teeth bared and Blighted.

Then the dragon threw down its head and screamed at Ixchel.

Ixchel did not understand dragons. She had fought enough to respect them, to predict them—she loved them, even, as one might love a hurricane for the beauty and force it contained. But she did not understand dragons.

Yet she understood that this dragon looked at her with an uncanny intelligence in its eyes, and it knew her.

“This ends now!”

Ixchel charged.

In many ways, it was exactly like any other dragon she had ever encountered.

In others, it was far, far worse.

Its armored growths of dormant lyrium and Blighted cysts made it meant that any hit it took was only half as effective. Its tattered wings meant that it could not seem to fly for very long, so the rhythm that she and Bull were familiar with in dragon fights—where there might be a moment of respite in the midst of the chaos as the dragon circled—was thrown off.

Periodically, its eyes would flash with magic of the Blight, and the lyrium embedded in its flesh would gain an eerie red tinge, gaining an almost invulnerable quality beneath any and all of their attacks.

It was proving to be a true test of her endurance. And it did not help that the Anchor had become dangerously unstable in her hand. Ixchel required all of her willpower to keep her grip on her sword despite the pain.

The ground beneath them on that frozen plain grew hard and black under the red lyrium dragon’s breath and blood. Its tactics were growing more vicious, and Ixchel honestly could not tell if that meant it was weakening or not—and she had no idea of how the battle was going behind her—and her _arm_ —

A battle cry rose up from the dragon’s flank, and Ixchel ducked under a sweep of its tail as it rounded on the newcomer—

Calpernia?

Ixchel tore into the dragon’s exposed leg and did not spare a second though to the mage. She could not preoccupy herself with anything but the dragon.

The battle had pushed them closer to the Abyssal Reach than Ixchel was comfortable with, but every time Ixchel tried to call her companions to draw the dragon back in the other direction, it settled in to wait. It clearly wanted the Reach to its back for a quick escape.

“I think we’ve got it down to its last legs!” Bull said, coming up to flank with her.

“It will try to flee to its master!” Calpernia shouted. “We cannot let that happen!”

“Now or never!” Ixchel agreed.

She took her hand off her sword as she charged the dragon a final time. She dove between its legs and raised the Anchor toward its exposed belly.

Blighted blood and thick ichor rained down on her head. ‘Til her dying day, she would never forget the echo of the blast _through_ the false Archdemon’s flesh and bone.

And then Ixchel was in a tornado of blood and scales.

She was thrown out like a rag doll as the red lyrium dragon flailed in agony. She landed heavily, stars bursting across her vision as she rolled and toppled across the ground until she finally caught herself.

Ixchel raised her head just as Solas and Cassandra reached her. “That must be a mortal wound!” Cassandra cried. “Its—its legs—”

The dragon’s forelegs were naught but mangled strips of scale and sinew. It staggered on its stumps, and for a moment, Ixchel agreed with Cassandra. She let out a ragged breath and sank back into Solas’s arms.

But then, the dragon drew itself up on its back limbs. It raised its head. And it screamed as though to wake the Old Gods itself. Before they could realize the danger—it was on them. It sprang forward, propelled by its rear legs, mouth agape and bleeding lyrium.

The dragon landed heavily on its chest and dragged out its wing to catch them all. Solas’s fingers scrabbled at Ixchel’s shoulder, then vanished. Cassandra’s full weight hit Ixchel in the side.

And Ixchel was falling.

The sudden lack of earth beneath her was enough to steal her breath away. But the very same realization—that she was falling into the Abyssal Reach with the Archdemon yet again—brought her back to her first fateful fall.

With icy clarity and inhuman fury, Ixchel extended the Anchor.

The last thing she saw of the waking world was the Archdemon falling past the rift and into the depths of the Abyssal Reach, streaming red magic behind it into the sky.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel fell toward the filthy wet ground of the Nightmare's Domain and screamed the whole way down. Behind her, Dorian was screaming, too, perhaps at her example. His shrieking was far more terrified, while hers channeled the pure fury of the last time she had been in the raw Fade, newly-resurrected and full of vengeful hatred.

And then, suddenly, Ixchel was pulled back. Something had caught her by the taught thread that wove through her entire being and connected her to the Anchor. It yanked her roughly by the center like hooks in her spine and left her in breathless agony; for a terrible moment, she hung suspended in an in-between state of vertigo with stars splashing across her vision—and then she gritted her teeth, for she knew that her back was about to hit the—

Knowing was not enough to prepare her. The impact sent all the air out of her lungs and for a moment she lay choking and dazed, staring up at the Black City.

Solas's feet touched down more lightly beside her, followed by Dorian's scrambling limbs, Cassandra's cold and calm boots, and…a Magister’s sandals.

Ixchel looked up at the wide-eyed Calpernia.

It took all of Ixchel’s strength to roll on to her hands and knees, coughing and gasping as she tried to catch her breath again. Her retching nearly turned into sobbing, and she curled her fist—furious at herself, at the dragon, at the Magisters, at Corypheus—and slammed the Anchor into the ground. A ripple of excess magic washed out over their feet, and she gasped in pain. The Anchor pulsed in her hand even after its flare.

Now that she had her wits about her, she realized it was more than just her hand that screamed for attention. Her ribs protested with every breath, and her knee was undoubtedly swollen, and she was _covered_ in stinging dragon blood.

"Well, shit," Ixchel said into the ground.

"Tch." The Magister narrowed her eyes. "Well it seems you haven't spoilt the Anchor after all. For here we are...in the Fade."

"Don't envy me," Ixchel said bitterly. "It'll take my arm with it eventually."

Calpernia's brows dipped in a moment of concern, but Ixchel had already started to stand. She couldn’t quite stand upright, for the pain that lanced through her kept her bowed. She looked around to assess the situation with a rapidly sinking feeling in her stomach.

Cassandra’s face was white, but determined. Dorian was trying obscure his panic with a look of bored curiosity as he turned in a slow circle. "You know, Calpernia, _my_ first time in the Fade it was all gold and silks, and a very handsome Desire demon," he drawled. "This is quite a bit more unpleasant."

Calpernia gave him a mean side eye. "Mine was also more...amicable."

"That's because we're in the realm of the oldest Fear demon I've ever heard of," Ixchel snapped. Her pulse raced in her ears in a frantic beat. "And we're here physically, and we can die here physically, and we need to _not be here_ physically!"

"Well, use that handy dandy hand of yours," Dorian suggested.

She used that hand to give him the finger as an answer. Her skin burned even through her gauntlet, green to the fingertip as it was consumed by the magic of the Anchor.

Dorian blanched at the sight.

Ixchel glanced past him to where Solas stood. He stared up to the Breach, and the Black City framed against it.

“Close enough to touch,” he said softly. He gave a disbelieving breath, not quite a laugh. “I never thought I’d be here. Not like this.”

Ixchel looked up at the Black City with white-hot fury, but beneath it was a sense of dread she had not actually known the last time she was in the Nightmare’s Domain. For, now, she had an idea of what had turned the Golden City black. She had an idea of what festered within its walls. And she knew how dangerous it was for Solas to be so close to it. Part of her wanted to start running and find a way to destroy it. Corypheus be damned, maybe if she worked hard enough Solas would never have to think of it again.

She hugged herself tightly and tried to catch her breath, but her anger flared anew every other moment as her companions spoke.

"Solas, do you understand this place?" Cassandra asked quietly. "I have no experience with the Fade... Let alone anything as...esoteric as this."

Solas chuckled darkly. "I would never seek out a place in the Fade such as this. As the Inquisitor said and our new friend can confirm”—he gestured at Calpernia—”this is the realm of the Nightmare. To have shaped an entire ecosystem in this way...it must be nearly as old as Imshael, and as powerful."

Cassandra, for a moment, looked relieved.

"Imshael was in _our_ home, cut off from the wealth of his power, and he didn't really _want_ to fight us," Ixchel cautioned angrily. "This is _dire,_ don't misunderstand!”

Everyone’s eyes turned to her with concern. That only made her pulse quicken.

“Look. I _am_ going to get us all out of here alive,” she vowed passionately. “But that means we cannot be separated. The Nightmare will throw our worst fears at us. The more we give it, the longer our journey will seem! So you _cannot_ doubt me, or else we are _certain_ to fail!”

Solas caught her by the shoulders and dug his fingers into her armor to keep her still, but she jerked free.

“I'm so, so fucking serious," she said with furious tears in her eyes. "I need you all to promise me—we’re in this together. All of us are going to make it out of here, or none of us make it out together. Promise me you will try to believe that!

“Of course we cannot promise such a thing,” Cassandra replied forcefully. She took a step closer, her grip on her sword likewise tightening. “You are the only hope we have for the material world. _That_ is what I believe. I will do whatever it takes to ensure you escape.”

Ixchel realized suddenly she was shaking. Her head spun, like she hadn't caught her breath at all.

Something in the air changed as the Nightmare’s attention found them at last.

 **"What's wrong, Inquisitor?"** the Nightmare boomed, voice like rolling thunder across its domain. **"What is one more death compared to the massacre that you led your people to at Adamant? Why does _Cassandra_ matter more than the countless hopefuls who have fallen under a Red Templar's blade?"**

Ixchel clenched her fists and stared at Cassandra. “You see?” she said; her voice splintered with emotion.

"I'd follow you to the Void and back," Dorian said quickly. "But please don't take us there."

She did not turn to look at Solas. His hands settled on her shoulders again, just as firm, and he turned her to look at him.

 _"Ma ghilana,"_ he said. "I mean it. I have meant it."

Cassandra was looking around nervously in the wake of the Nightmare’s taunt. She turned back to Ixchel with wide eyes. "I have always had faith in you," she said, the last. "If you say we will find a way to get out together, then I know we will."

“And how _do_ you plan on saving us all?” Calpernia asked sourly. “If the Anchor will not open the Veil here?”

Ixchel pointed up at the sky from where they had come. A thin line—the rift she had opened—hung far above them, out of reach. “We’re going to find a place where the Veil is thin. The Venatori opened a rift right in front of the Nightmare,” she said with a bitter smile. “I closed it, but hopefully the Veil is weak enough there that I can reopen it from the inside.”

“Well, it certainly seems like our only option,” Dorian said. “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ma ghilana," - I follow you / You lead me


	101. Drums in the Deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/28/20

Ixchel stood for a moment longer, staring up at their goal. Her stomach twisted with panic, and it was more than just her bruised ribs that made ever breath a chore.

 _Not everything unplanned is a tragedy,_ she tried to remind herself. _Remember the difference between a merc job and a war. Plans do not mean control. None of this is inherently bad. You killed the Archdemon. You can kill the Nightmare if it comes down to it._

For all she had just demanded of her companions, she didn’t believe herself.

"Look,” Solas said softly. “A dreamer, ensnared by the Nightmare."

 _"That_ is a dreaming child?" Cassandra gasped.

Ixchel limped over to where her companions had gathered around an out-of-place bed, in which the hazy form of a small child sat, weeping. Ixchel’s heart clenched at the sight.

"If one person doesn't matter, then I'm sure you won't care if I release these poor souls," she barked at the sky.

The Nightmare did not reply, and Ixchel sat on the bed beside the misty child.

_The Inquisitor... Momma says she saved us... She'll save Stuffy..._

And Ixchel felt as though something had been pulled out of her arms. Something small and soft and toy shaped, with buttons for eyes—

"I'll save Stuffy," she said softly. "The child lost their stuffed toy," she explained. “If we return it, the Nightmare loses a meal."

Solas immediately began looking in the area, and Cassandra followed after only a momentary look of disbelief. But Calpernia and Dorian hung back, exceedingly skeptical of everything witnessed here in the Fade.

“So why did you come back, Calpernia?” Dorian asked. Ixchel listened attentively, for she wondered the same thing.

Calpernia gave him a pinched look. “Clearly because I’m a damned fool,” she said tersely.

“Or, you wanted to join the ranks of Thedas’s greatest heroes,” Dorian offered.

The woman flexed her fingers in irritation, and Ixchel realized for the first time that Calpernia didn’t carry a staff. Tiny ripples of magic glossed over her hands, ready and primed for use. That either meant she was very powerful, or very raw—but Ixchel guessed that it was the former.

“I saw my people to safety,” Calpernia said, “and then I foolishly wanted some sort of revenge on my master. Killing his pet dragon seemed fitting.”

“Well, at least we’re fairly certain it’s dead. It must be, right?” Dorian glanced between Calpernia and Ixchel.

Ixchel remembered the Blight magic streaming from the dragon as it fell and couldn’t help her savage grin. “Oh, it’s dead,” she said.

Cassandra found a stuffed nug with wings sewn into its back, and Ixchel stared at it. "Krem makes those," she said.

The Seeker immediately understood. "The child was from Haven, then."

They both looked at Calpernia.

The woman's nostrils flared. "Why would you bring children into a war zone?" she demanded.

"They came to a pilgrimage site!" Cassandra barked. "You _turned_ it into a war zone!"

Solas put his hand out to stop Ixchel before she could rise to her own anger. “Ladies, you do not have time for this.”

Cassandra's jaw clenched and she went to return to the child's bed. The Seeker moved more slowly once she got closer, and she held out the nug as though she were afraid a demon might jump out from beneath the bed at any moment.

But the child took the nug, and they both faded away.

"I... I felt it," Cassandra said in quiet awe. "The child is free."

"Unfortunately, I believe we might spend several lifetimes freeing dreaming minds from the Nightmare's clutches," Dorian pointed out. Ixchel had to agree there. "The best thing we can do for them would be to kill it—" he caught sight of Ixchel's bleak look "—or sever its connection to Corypheus, at least."

“Right,” Ixchel agreed. She flexed her fingers testily. “I think the best we can hope for is to simply escape.”

She trudged off through the wasteland, arm held tight against her chest to stymie the pain. Ixchel tried to keep her wits about her as she progressed, taking stock of where her companions were arrayed behind her and what threats might pop up in front of her. Though she led the way through the rank landscape, she was truthfully searching for anything she might have recognized from last time she was there: the watery graveyard of their fears, guarded by Despair, or the lonely campsites of Wardens dreading their Callings, or the Pride demons warring for supremacy on an outlook. But this place was a maze to her. The only constant was the endless sea that seemed to surround them.

Calpernia moved to catch up with her, and Ixchel felt the tension behind them as her allies prepared to leap to her defense should the Magister attack.

"You should be proud, Inquisitor," Calpernia said instead. "You killed the red lyrium dragon and walked in the Fade. The Elder One will know no worse envy, now that an elf has dealt him such a blow."

"You can enjoy it for me," Ixchel said. She tried not to look so bitterly at Calpernia. "I don't know if the Nightmare will distinguish between you and us in its torment, Calpernia. It will pluck and pick and poke at all of our darkest, sorest spots. It may reveal things we would rather remain hidden. We may not be allies, but... I do not wish you that pain. I am sorry for bringing you here."

Calpernia continued to regard her with narrowed eyes. "With a face like yours, I can only imagine what might cause you fear," she said at last. Ixchel grinned at the dig, partly because she knew that it twisted her scars in a gruesome manner, but partly in appreciation for the dig itself. Calpernia did not return her smile. “I feel as though you have already seen my greatest fear, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel’s face fell. She nodded slowly. "It can just be Ixchel," she said. "I would rather be Ixchel, as I'm sure you'd rather not be 'Mistress.'"

“What will you do with your former master?” Ixchel asked.

“I gave orders that he should be killed.” Calpernia looked away again and up at the Black City contemplatively. “He did not deserve to be free, but he did not deserve the fate he had suffered. No one does.”

As Calpernia spoke, something sharp within Ixchel slipped free and eased. She let out a startled breath. “No one does,” she agreed.

"Inquisitor...is that...?" Dorian pointed, and Ixchel followed to find that he was staring at an eluvian.

A shattered eluvian.

Ixchel looked back at him, then at Solas.

“Could we find a working one?” Dorian asked quickly. “Perhaps the Anchor could be used to activate one?”

Ixchel shook her head vehemently. “I’m not trusting anything in this place,” she said. "We need to get out of here. Come on. Before my hand falls off."

They continued on in grim silence, until they approached a massive spire of red lyrium. Dorian stared up at it, pale-faced. "Can anyone possibly explain how there is red lyrium in the Fade?"

Before Ixchel could answer, the pain in her arm overwhelmed her. She cried out and clutched at her wrist, as though that had ever stopped the Anchor from eating away at her arm before. Solas caught her as her knees threatened to give way, and he lowered her slowly to the ground.

 _“Ir abelas,”_ he said softly. “It is…far more potent here.”

Ixchel nodded and squeezed her eyes shut to fight back tears of pain.

“The red lyrium… It's the Blight," she said through her teeth to Dorian as she jerked her head at the red crystals. "It's all connected. Corypheus is infused with the stuff. He used to be black but now that he's regained power he's red. The Red Templars get all these veins like Ghouls before they turn into whatever they turn into. And the Black City is black."

Everyone looked up at the floating city, except for Solas, who looked at Ixchel with a solemn expression. He had removed her gauntlet and now laced their fingers together, his skin cool and dry against the heat of the Anchor in her palm.

Once again…she was so close to something.

 _They_ were.

“And the Nightmare’s favorite fear has to be a fear of the Blight, ‘cause it’s never-ending,” Ixchel added finally.

"But...the Blight..." Cassandra shook her head. "I thought only living things..."

Ixchel stared back at Solas as Dorian and Calpernia came to the same conclusion. "Lyrium is alive?" Calpernia said. "Preposterous!"

"No, no," Dorian said slowly, "it makes sense! Cole says that Templars don't negate magic by reinforcing reality...but because they reject magic. Their bodies and souls reject it, because they're making room for something else. At least, that’s what Cole says. They listen too hard for the song…of something. The same something dwarves do." He covered his face with his hands. "But what living thing is it a part _of? Who_ is singing through the lyrium?"

"And why is it here?" Cassandra repeated.

"Why _does_ lyrium fuel magic, mages?" Ixchel pressed. "Perhaps it is more integral to the Fade than we know. But we don't have time for this, or for helping the individual dreamers, or fighting."

Calpernia took a deep breath. "You are right, Inquisitor. Such esoteric questions should be considered in a laboratory or a library." She gave Dorian a hard look, sniffed, and then continued walking past the red lyrium.

Solas helped Ixchel to her feet, but then released her hand. She nodded at him shortly; she already felt weak and exposed in front of Calpernia. She did not want to give the woman more reason to think her soft.

They reached the top of a very steep, slick hill and found a figure in white waiting for them.

"I greet you, Inquisitor," the Divine said to Ixchel. "Cassandra."

Ixchel took a protective step closer to the Seeker. She put her hand on the woman's elbow to steady her, for Cassandra’s spirit seemed to have lifted, lightened her, so that she might take off from the ground at any moment.

"Most Holy?" Cassandra breathed.

"You knew the Divine," Dorian whispered. "Is that really her?"

"I... I don't know." She swallowed. "It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger. But we know that spirits lie."

Ixchel was suddenly very wary about speaking with the Divine, though not for the reasons Cassandra likely had in mind. When it seemed Ixchel was not about to take the lead, Cassandra took a step forward. "The real Divine would have no way of knowing the titles we have bestowed on this woman," she said in a more measured voice. "How you can call her Inquisitor...?"

"I know because I have felt memories that were stolen, like the Inquisitor’s, " the Divine said dreamily. "This is the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off memories of fear and darkness and grows fat upon the terror... In truth, proving my existence either way would take time you do not have."

"Can you help us get out of the Fade?" Cassandra asked.

"That is why I am here," she said. She looked at Ixchel. "The Inquisitor knows what must be done, but she does not know the way. I will guide you through this lair."

Everyone looked at her, too, in varying shades of surprise and confusion. Ixchel shrank a little despite herself. "I need those fears back," she said to the ground.

"Whatever for?" Dorian demanded.

"Because it will never stop seeking me if it holds on to them," she said. "Because it will always have a part of me here in its clutches."

"They are guarded by powerful servants," the Divine said.

Ixchel ran a hand across her grimy face. "Fuck," she said.

"You said you did not know what it took from you," Solas said quietly.

She rounded on him, but didn't meet his gaze. “That’s true…but I have ideas.” She looked back at the Divine instead, a desperate question unvoiced in her mouth.

"It is the Nightmare's way, to inflict more pain, even in your victory," the Divine answered. "To regain these memories, your companions will witness your greatest fears. Such is the trial that lays before you."

Cassandra put her hands on Ixchel's shoulders. "We already know you lead us in spite of your fears, not because you are fearless," she said. "We three have seen the doubt and despair that plagues you. The things that put you on that _dinanshiral.”_ Her Nevarran accent and unpracticed tongue made the world fall heavy, like a blunt trauma to Ixchel’s ears, and she winced. “Whatever their source... It cannot make me doubt you, Inquisitor. Not after all we have been through."

Ixchel clasped one of Cassandra's gauntlets tight. "You've got my blind side," she said shakily, but she wasn't sure how much she believed that, in the end. Because she was a liar, wasn’t she? She was a failure, wasn’t she? And perhaps they were all about to find out.

She tried to identify all the gaps in her memory once again, as she had a hundred times. What were her three dearest friends and this stranger going to witness? Something from the last battle, but after Corypheus had already died. Something, or many things, from the Deep Roads. And any of a hundred other awful things she had forgotten, in the sea of her despairs.

Ixchel’s eyes ached, and her throat constricted tightly. She had tried so hard to avert this. She had not planned for this outcome. And now, her mind was too panicked and despairing to think of any option other than: _they are going to hate me when they find out._

They did not make her take the lead. Cassandra followed the Divine at the front, followed by Dorian, then Calpernia, Ixchel, and Solas. Ixchel gripped the masterwork hilt of her chromatic great sword and tried to keep her breathing even.

Of course, her memories were not guarded by fearlings and wraiths. No. Only Despair would do.

Ixchel tried not to get distracted by the glowing orb throughout the battle. She tried to keep her guard up and tumble away from the icy breath of the demon as it howled at her. She still ended up slammed into a wall of Fade-touched veridium with all the force of a bronto.

Ixchel sank to the ground with all the breath in her lungs stolen from her and gasped into the dark fetid pool beneath her. Solas sprang forward to lay a barrier over her and rain fire down on the Despair demon before it could get any closer.

When she finally got to her feet in the aftermath of the battle, she glowered at the mages. "Save your strength and mana," she told them in a weary voice. "That was one petty Despair. We have the Nightmare ahead of us."

She took a fearless step toward the glowing memory, but her swagger left her quickly. When she stood before it, it was all she could do to stare down at it glumly.

"Ixchel," Solas said gently.

 _He does not call me vhenan,_ she reminded herself. _He has changed so much. He has chosen differently._

_Maybe he will understand, when he finds out._

Ixchel bent painfully and picked the memory up. As soon as her fingers wrapped around it, it burst into a cloud of magic; the Fade swirled around them and swallowed up all the light in existence.

_There was no light here, and the only sound was the drums—and the frantic panting of a frightened young woman in the dark._

_"That's our last elixir," Valta whispered. "How many more waves can there be?"_

_"We have to find the others," Ixchel had whispered desperately. "Get to the surface camp—"_

_The darkness exploded into a hail of fire and stone. Genlocks came bounding in to the tiny chamber, and above them, an Emissary floated, cackling out of its black and bloody mouth._

_"Run!_ Run _!" Ixchel shouted, and the small, dark shape of the Shaper darted out from beneath the Emissary. Ixchel tried to run after her, but the Emissary's magic blasted her at point-blank range. She was hurled from the room and into the broader chamber. Blood and fire and the smell of the Blight filled her senses as her armor shrieked along the stone._

_And then she was falling—_

_A hand caught her. Her full weight yanked hard on her shoulder and she screamed in pain and terror, swinging above the endless abyss. She looked up and saw that her savior was none other than the very same Emissary that had nearly killed her a moment previously._

_It turned its vile head away from Ixchel and looked at her companions._

_"It is inevitable," it hissed at them. "Drop your weapons."_

_“Eat this, Blighty-shite-face!”_

_The chaos of what followed was full of a terror Ixchel had never truly known before or since. The whistle of an arrow. The low whoosh of something heavy and metal slicing through air. An impact against her, and then the Emissary—and then falling again._

_A desperate pain as something pulled tight against her waist, yanking her in the opposite direction._

_"Climb! Climb!"_

_But she couldn't climb. Her arm dangled uselessly. She could hardly catch her breath. Fire rained down over the edge of the cliff—_

_The rope gave an inch._

Ixchel was thrust from the memory into a staggering, gasping body.

"Ah, the infamous Deep Roads," Calpernia said. "That was terrifying."

There was no mockery in her voice. Cassandra uttered a soft curse of her own. Even so, their commentary strained Ixchel's nerves and it was all she could do not to snap at them to shut up. Maybe she should institute a no-commentary rule.

No, that would probably make what was to come that much worse.

For the moment, she was mostly relieved that it was the dark Deep Roads, and not Fen’Harel’s Refuge, that was such a source of her fears. It had been too dark to see who her allies had been on that journey. There had been no voices for Dorian or Solas or Cassandra to recognize, because it had been Sera who had swung a grappling hook around her waist and screamed for her to climb up. There was nothing that might have given away that it was some future-past experience, in another time, in another world, another life.

She wiped at her face again and rolled her shoulder. Her heart was racing in her chest. "It was a nightmare," she agreed.

"I'm glad you escaped," Dorian said. "At least you can remind yourself of that: you survived."

"In the moment it's hard to remember that,” she said. Ixchel grimaced, and she had to force herself not to reach for Solas’s hand. But she couldn’t help casting a glance his way, and she found his face tight with pain and sympathy.

He inclined his head ever so slightly toward her. He had promised to remind her, if she needed it; _she had survived._ He had promised to brace her against her fears.

 _Love is loss, and trust is fear,_ he had said.

And she was so afraid.

"You have reclaimed a part of yourself, Inquisitor," the Divine said. She had chosen that moment to reappear beside them, making every last one of them jump in terror. “Now the true trial begins.”


	102. Conductor of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 12/28/20

**"Ah..."** The voice of the Nightmare rumbled out from all around them. **"So the foolish little girl comes to steal the fear I _kindly_ lifted from her shoulders."**

Ixchel wanted to cover her ears, exactly as the child the Nightmare had described might. She caught herself and clenched her fists.

**"Has the pain ever really made you stronger, _da'len?_ Or has it simply corroded your armor, left gaps for enemies and friends alike?"**

It chuckled mirthlessly.

**"I suppose we shall see how your guests react. Do go on."**

Ixchel took a deep breath. “For what it’s worth,” she forced herself to say, but it came out so soft she wasn’t sure if she would be heard, “if anyone has to see my greatest fears… I’d rather it be you all.”

Dorian put his hand on the small of her back. “What Cassandra said holds true for me, and I’m sure for Solas, as well.”

Ixchel tried to smile, but her dry lips cracked with the effort. “I’ll try to trust that,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She followed after the Divine. The Divine did not look at her.

 _Are you Faith?_ Ixchel wondered. _Were you Love? What did this woman embody so much that you would take her form, identify so strongly with her?_

Ixchel’s thoughts wandered to Telana, and the spirit who had become so invested in her last moments, her search for Ameridan through the Fade… She wondered if that, too, had been Love. She had not even known, _then,_ to ask the question of Solas.

She wondered now if they would survive long enough to free Ameridan and let him be reunited with Telana in death.

“Ixchel…” Cassandra stepped up beside her. “What do you truly remember, of the Conclave? You told me of a man threatening the Divine, and then green light…”

“And then pain,” Ixchel said. “Yes. It was a blur—but I remember the Divine and I running… And then I fell out of the Fade, but she did not.”

“So it is possible that she survived, just as we have survived, here,” Cassandra said quietly.

“She is helping us,” Ixchel said. “Is that what Justinia would do?”

“Of course!”

Ixchel shrugged. “Then let it be Justinia, or a Spirit who is enacting Justinia’s will. Either way—it would be her wish.”

Cassandra’s brow creased as she looked back at the Divine, paces ahead of them. “I…do not know what stops me from taking comfort in that.”

“Fear of trust,” Ixchel offered.

Cassandra was still uneasy. “Perhaps that is it.”

Her next memory was guarded by a pack of fearlings and Terrors. Last time she had encountered them, they had taken the form of the massive rats that haunted the sewers of Markham—the ones that she had heard were vicious enough to eat a child right out of their mother's arms. Since she had never had a mother to even try to protect her…well, the rats had always inspired a visceral, immediate fear in her.

Now, of course, they looked like the Dread Wolf.

She tried to remind herself that no one else saw what she saw. In fact, Cassandra and Dorian kept a running commentary on the horrors they saw as they battled. They saw spiders and maggots and snakes. They saw rats. They did not see Dalish bogeymen.

When the last demon had fallen and melted away into the fade, Ixchel found herself standing closer to Solas. "What do you see?" she asked under her breath.

He gave her a flickering smile. "Hares."

She knew how _she_ felt when he looked at her with grief, so she tried not to let her own show on her face. But she realized the implications of this, his visceral, fearful reaction to hares. She clenched her jaw and gave him a brief touch on the elbow.

Solas looked away.

Ixchel went to reclaim her next memory, heart in her throat as she anticipated that this would be the one to reveal her secret at last—

_Booming gatlok in the Deep. The waters of the Buried Sea rising up around her. It was impossible to tell what direction was up or down, as the faded lyrium lamps of the Deep Roads reflected above and below the dark, rushing water._

_She shouted: "Anyone?!?" but was met only with echoes._

_For one crystal-clear moment, Ixchel knew she was going to die. She was going to die, and there would be no one to look for her, no one to know what had happened... Not even_ he _would be able to reach these ruins to dream of her… If he would even miss her._

_He had left, after all._

_In the end, she had only ever been a pawn. A little girl, so below his attention, his aspirations, his power—no, he would not come looking for her._

_Then a hand was on her foot. The Qunari shock-trooper dragged her down into a deeper pool and scrabbled to find her throat. The abrupt fall had left her winded, and cold water, acrid with minerals and lyrium, flooded her mouth and lungs._

_For a moment, a part of her viciously welcomed death. But then her body moved of its own accord: a desperate need to survive that surpassed her conscious desires and acted, fought, struggled to live as the Qunari’s hands tightened around her throat and tried to crush her wind pipe._

_She grabbed a hold of the man's little finger and bent it back until it broke._

_He released his grip on reflex, howling in pain. Ixchel clawed her way through rubble and broke up into air again, but the water was rising quickly._

_And everything had gone dark._

Ixchel blinked at the memory. "Hah," she said softly. “That wasn’t so ba—”

 **"Such a small gift you gave me… So small that I nearly underestimated its value,"** the Nightmare purred.

Her jaw clenched, angered at being interrupted, and afraid of what it might be about to say.

**"You may wear the Watcher's marks on your face, but you are _his_ slave nonetheless. For the Iron Bull is right, isn’t he, _da’len?”_**

Ixchel’s limbs were still numb with the remembered waters of the Deep Roads. Now, she stared up at the Breach with a dawning sense of horror that was beyond even that which she had just remembered feeling alone in the flooding tunnels.

**“Yes. You cling to that which you fear the most... Give up, little girl... Let go."**

Ixchel forced herself to move, and she picked up a stone and hurled it with all her strength in the direction she knew the Nightmare resided. It laughed.

**"That's right. You _tried_ to let go, but he would not release you. Tell me, do you yet know whether your for him love was true? Or was his vallaslin eternally inscribed on your heart by his cruelty?”**

"That's enough!" Cassandra roared.

 **"Ah, Seeker. Your Inquisitor is a fraud. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your 'faith' has been for naught."** The Nightmare continued laughing.

"You would not be the woman you are without your faith," Solas said quickly. "You cannot let it belittle you with things you could never be certain of anyway! That is the very _nature_ of faith, is it not?"

The Nightmare positively cackled, but it did not turn its ire on Solas yet.

Dorian wrapped his arms around Ixchel suddenly, and she realized she was shaking.

She was nearly overcome with rage, but at its core was a terrible fear she had not known before—something she had not allowed herself to examine, and something the Nightmare had stolen from her so that she _couldn’t_ examine it.

For so long she had been grappling with her anger at the Solas she had known, tried to set it aside and focus on the Solas she knew now. She had doubted if she could _let herself love_ Solas now, because she found it so hard to believe that he had changed his plans. She struggled to maintain faith that he would stay off his _din’an’shiral…_

 _But…did_ she love him because her life was so meaningless outside of that mission? Did she _stop_ herself from loving anyone _but_ him? Did she love him because that was the only way she could focus on saving him, and the world? Did she love him because of some strange magical manipulation due to the pieces of himself that were within her, gluing her soul together? Did she love him because he had been the one to break her apart in the first place—under the weight of his love, his faith, his impossible hope in the impossible duty he had given her?

No. She had always loved him, just as she had always loved any of her dearest companions. She had loved him as a friend. She had loved him more as a kindred spirit. She had admired his knowledge, his artistry, his skill, his loyalty, his ideals—and no matter the monster he believed himself to be, and no matter the _din’an’shiral,_ he was still that man, and that was who she had come to love.

And she had loved him before he had twisted her into this desperate, crippled thing that ended her own life. Before he had reshaped her into what _he_ remembered of her and sent her back.

She might never know how much of _who_ she was today was because of him—because of his hurt, because of his plots, because of his meddling, because of his magic. But that much was true about Dorian, too, and in a smaller way Bull and Cassandra too.

They had made her into the woman she was now, and she had loved them _all,_ and she had left them—

Ixchel had started to cry into Dorian’s chest. He fisted a hand in her hair and crushed her as close to him as he could to try and contain her, but she was falling apart.

“Well, fuck Bull and his psychoanalysis,” Dorian said to the top of her head. She laughed, and it was a terrible sound: a wet half-shriek.

“You _really_ do not like the Deep Roads,” Calpernia observed. “Who in the world left you there?”

Ixchel gently pushed away from Dorian and wiped at her eyes, but probably just left gore across her face. She did not look at her companions and instead turned to face the Divine, who had reappeared. The woman’s strangely passive face fell briefly into a semblance of placid sympathy.

“With each moment, the Nightmare grows stronger. The longer you remain here, the more tightly it clutches at what remains. You must get closer still.”

The Divine led them right through the graveyard of their deepest fears. Ixchel tried not to look at them, but Calpernia slowed to a halt in front of a tombstone, and that made Dorian pause, and then everyone stopped. Ixchel waited with her back to the graveyard and instead stared at the Divine. She did not want know what her greatest fear had become.

 **“Perhaps _I_ should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition.” **The Nightmare laughed. **“Yet I find it difficult to be afraid of such soft quicklings. For I have known each of you _…each_ of you…in your darkest moments.”**

“So it turns out your greatest fear is simply an out-of-season kerchief,” Dorian said lightly as he came up to join Ixchel. “I always _knew_ you were a woman of taste.”

Ixchel did not smile, and she did not have time to respond, because the Nightmare had appeared as a giant raven beside one of the golden ravens that appeared so often in this place. Ixchel knew it was the Nightmare immediately, but only in part because of the the fearlings that rose up over the ridge behind it.

And Ixchel narrowed her eyes at it, for she had just realized—

“Are you Fear, or Deceit?” she shouted at the demon.

The Nightmare tilted its head and cawed at her. **“Why? You have have no cedar switch to scatter me, _da’len.”_**

All three mages took aim at it, but with a flap of its wings, it vanished.

“What are you talking about?” Cassandra demanded as they met the horde of fearlings with their blades.

“One of the Dalish gods mastered two ravens,” Ixchel said, carving through two shadowy wolves with their six red eyes. “Fear, and Deceit, they were called.”

Cassandra threw off a fearling with her shield, and ran another through with an upswing of her sword. “You mean _—that_ old?!”

“Older than the First Blight,” the Divine intoned from above them.

Ixchel beheaded the last fearling and turned to Calpernia. The woman had ichor on her face, but she was staring at Ixchel in wonder. “We have a betting pool going,” Ixchel said blithely as she gestured at Calpernia’s face.

Calpernia brushed off the gore with her forearm and wrinkled her nose. “Next you will tell me that the Black City is Arlathan,” she said with distaste.

Everyone stared at her.

She threw her hands up. “Not _everything_ is because of the elves!” she cried. “There is no Maker, no forces that govern this world but for the will we exert upon it. Let the past die, and build new glory _in spite_ of it!”

Dorian chuckled. “Yes, ‘the elves did it’ does eventually feel like the unimaginative answer,” he admitted.

Ixchel just had to laugh. The Nightmare joined her, raucous in its croaking.

 **“That was a pretty speech, _Magister,”_** it crooned. **“You cling to it just as tightly as the Inquisitor does her fears. But see what has become of her: the more tightly you chain yourself to such aspirations, the more of a strangle-hold your inevitable failure will have upon you.”**

“Hush, you! I will not be chained again!” Calpernia snapped at it.

**“Ah…but you would make a lovely host for one of my minions. Or perhaps I will _ride_ your body myself.”**

Calpernia unleashed a massive flood of Tevene on the Nightmare that positively _boiled_ the air around them. “I will shield them all from you, demon!” Calpernia finished. “No slave shall ever again fear what I have feared!”

A heavy silence fell in the vacuum her wrathful voice left. Perhaps even the Nightmare was cowed. Or perhaps it had gotten exactly the reaction it had wanted from her.

“Did you _truly think_ Corypheus would go along with such a plan?” Dorian asked quietly. “Where did you think he would get all his blood from? Turnips?”

Calpernia turned from him. “You need not remind me that I have been a blind fool!”

Ixchel stepped in. “The Nightmare is right,” she said. “Look at me, Calpernia. All the hurt and betrayal and loss I’ve suffered has made me slow to trust—my friends, their goals, and even the world. But we can’t let the fear of shame or failure stop us from trusting, and trying.” She pressed her aching hand to her chest. “Corypheus will pay for using your hope against you. But that doesn’t mean you were wrong to trust people who want to help you. Dorian and his coalition are trying to change Tevinter, too.”

The Magister stormed past her, and her leather skirts fluttered behind her. “Corypheus _will_ pay,” she said with finality.

They found another shattered eluvian—the second—surrounded by red lyrium and memory crystals. From the way they were positioned, it seemed as though they were inviting them to listen.

And so they did, despite, perhaps, their better instincts.

Calpernia forced herself to touch the first crystal. But no voice poured out of the crystal as it had before. Instead, the crystal cracked, and blood began to pool out at their feet. The tendrils of it swirled and formed into words of the common tongue, slow enough to read:

_Master unveiled a new altar. It stands higher than a man, like a great statue, and great spikes jut out from its length, hungry for blood. Master calls it "the Claw of Dumat" and says that the altar will help bring Tevinter to glory. I praised it, as was expected, and Master smiled. It was good to see him smile again. He has been fearful of late, vexed by the loss of followers. He has met with the other priests, and in secret, I have heard them discussing ways to return the people of Tevinter to the ways of the Old Gods, as is only just._

_He spoke to me later in the day, and asked that I call him Corypheus, as it was the name he would take for himself after a ritual. Master - now Corypheus - told me that my people, the elves of old, were tied to the Fade, and that in order to carry out the will of Dumat, he would need to call upon the magic that lives in our blood._

_Corypheus told me to gather all of the elven servants and bring them to the western hall of our home at midnight. That is the hall where the Claw of Dumat is now kept. There are shackles across the top of the great altar, and pools lined with runes beneath the claws._

_I have sent my wife and children away, but have not warned the others. A few I may save. If I tried to save us all, we would only be killed in some other way, and others would die in our place._

_Master once laughed and joked. He could be stern, but he was not a cruel man. The weakening of the temples brought fear into his heart, and that fear has changed him. The cuts upon his arms are deeper and longer where he used his blood magic more often. He speaks to his wife little. He listens only to the voices in his dreams._

_It is almost midnight. The Claw of Dumat, great and spiked and merciless, is all my mind can see. I must gather the others. My family is safe. Corypheus will take me, but not those I love._

Calpernia was white with anger, but her face was green in the light of the Fade—she looked ill. She shook her hand as though disgusted to have touched the crystal, and she turned, holding her hand close to her chest. Ixchel did not press her.

Dorian went to the next crystal, as though drawn by some terrible curiosity he could not fight. It cracked and spilled and wrote and whispered just as it had previously:

_I made the expected offerings this morning, but the gods remained silent. The priests are frightened. All of Tevinter is frightened. Our gods have led our people for centuries. Now, they have gone still._

_Are we alone here in this world, no better than the savages to the south who beg for guidance from spirits? And what of the strange creatures who come from underground, like our friends the dwarves? These spawn of the darkness and the plague they carry... Why do our gods not protect us from this?_

_Now the ground shakes. The statue cuts my hand as I fall against it. A great roar sounds. It is massive, shaking the temple market, and I see the silhouette cut the sky. It is a dragon. No, it is Dumat! I have made the offerings so many times - his form is as familiar as my own hand. He has returned in glory to destroy these darkspawn that threaten us, to lead Tevinter back to an age of glory and wonder!_

_But no, his scales are sickly and mottled, his form twisted and corrupt, like the darkspawn themselves. He opens his great maw, and fire billows forth, igniting the market._

_The flames rush toward me._

_What did we do wrong?_

Dorian shuddered, and Cassandra marched forward to smash the next crystal. In the sound of splintering stone, they heard voices chanting amid the screams of dying slaves:

_Look upon the Temple of Dumat:_  
_God of Silence, who speaks to the faithful in dreams._  
_No words of desire may sway His will;_  
_No cry of valor may stand against Him,_  
_For His Silence conquers all,_  
_And His Secrets are shared only with the worthy._  
_Look upon the Temple of Dumat_  
_And fear Him._

Cassandra shuddered and uttered a short prayer to the Maker under her breath. The Nightmare was strangely silent, but Ixchel could feel it watching them. And only one crystal remained.

Ixchel and Solas looked at one another. Ixchel hugged herself and gave him a pleading look.

He stepped forward and activated the crystal.


	103. Last Words and Lost Worlds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: allusions to suicide
> 
> 12/28/20

The screams grew louder.

_What happened? Where are the paths? Where are the paths?!_

_They will send people. They will save us!_

_When have you last heard from the gods? When the Veil came down, they went silent!_

_Gods save me, the floor is gone. Do not let me fall. Do not let me—!_

Ixchel knew that no one but she and Solas would know that catastrophe had come from Vir Dirthara—and that Solas wouldn’t know necessarily that _she_ knew. Yet even so, the sounds of true terror were universally chilling. Solas’s shoulders were tense as he turned back to Ixchel, and his eyes were dark and full of self-hatred.

Ixchel would have reached for him if she had not been distracted by something far more troubling:

All the blood that had pooled on the ground was now writhing like warring snakes in the direction of the shattered eluvian. Ixchel stared in horror at the mirror as it came to life, not blindingly bright like an eluvian but so utterly dark it felt like she were staring into the Void itself.

But the whispers she heard weren’t from the mirror.

They were from the red lyrium all around them:

_We are here_  
_We have waited_  
_We have slept_  
_We are sundered_  
_We are crippled_  
_We are polluted_  
_We endure_  
_We wait_  
_We have found the dreams again_  
_We will awaken_

Ixchel stared into the Void with such terrible, terrible fear mounting in her that she could not breathe. Her mouth tasted like deathroot, like the Blight—she felt it like poison gas in her lungs, in her blood—and under the whispers she could hear the song of red lyrium louder than anything she had _ever_ heard in her _life._

And it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard, and it was the only thing she _could_ hear. The voice of the Calling sang to her of some memory she had forgotten, that had been forgotten by all—a memory so precious, so lovely, she would do anything to recover it.

But the voices knew that she knew the _truth._

And out of the darkness, she saw something stir—

Solas stepped bodily in front of her and pushed her back away from the mirror.

“You cannot listen,” he said vehemently.

“But I understand,” she replied, as groggy as though she had just woken from a deep dream. But behind him, the mirror had become a shattered eluvian again, not a yawning portal to an abyss. She shook her head and turned away from it…and then found herself faced with an army of shades.

She activated her chromatic great sword and gave herself a shake. “I hate this place,” she sighed.

They took care of the shades quickly and continued on.

“I feel that we have learned something terrible, and terribly important,” Dorian said to her as they walked along, “but I almost already wish I could forget it.”

“Me too,” Ixchel replied under her breath.

“Are you doing alright, _mula?_ ” he asked softly.

“No,” Ixchel said. She looked up at him. “But we’re going to get out of here.”

“We’re going to get out of here,” he agreed.

“But I’m injured and exhausted and upset,” she admitted.

He put an arm around her shoulders. “Do you need my staff to walk with?”

“No, I’m good, Dor.”

He sighed. “You stink like the Blight, you know.”

Ixchel looked up at him hesitantly. “What’s on your mind?” she asked in a quieter voice. “Are you doing alright?”

Dorian kept his eyes on the path ahead. “I know we’ve spoken about being the Chosen One and all that before… And you’d think, all of this”—he gestured around at the Fade, the Nightmare—”would just confirm it for me. But I find myself remembering how often you’ve said you’ve chosen yourself. And…suddenly I’m very glad I’m not in your shoes. The pain of watching you go through this is enough.”

Ixchel blinked away a fresh wave of tears.

“I mean it, _mula,_ I’d follow you to the Void and back. I’d go with you to the Deep Roads even if it’s as bad as you remember. So…if there’s anything you want to tell me before it’s revealed to everyone in bombastic sound and color…” He took a breath. “At least then, in the moment, you’d know you had someone who loved you no matter what everyone sees. Because it seems that’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Do you understand what I’m—”

Ixchel had stopped walking and put her arms around him in a crushing grip. He wrapped his arms around her in kind.

“It’s going to be bad,” she said into his chest. “It’s going to be so, so bad— I’m so, so afraid of it.”

He squeezed her tightly. “I’ve seen you _kill people,_ Ixchel,” he reminded her. “I’ve seen you covered in nug shit, arm-deep in Great Bear guts, covered in Blighted dragon bits, all snotty and puffy from being suicidally weepy…how bad could it be?”

Ixchel wished it were so simple.

And she knew that he was right. Maybe it would be easier for her, if she could tell one of them what may or may not lie ahead of them, just to be sure that she had one person with her in the end… Maybe it would take the edge off, maybe it would start the healing process ahead of time—but Dorian could not _possibly_ know that of the three people gathered there…she could _never_ tell him.

“It’s bad,” she rasped, pulling away from him. She did not meet his eyes as they continued on to their next confrontation.

She was so unsettled by her conversation with Dorian, and the whispers and the song she had heard, and all the Nightmare’s taunts, that when they found her next memory and took care of its guardians, she picked up the memory without hesitation.

But instead of shaping the Fade all around them…a voice began shouting, loudly, right below her face.

_“Ixchel! I know you are tired, I know you are tired, but this is not the answer!”_

Ixchel scrabbled at her neck and tugged the traitorous crystal free. It had been dead and dark for so long, she had completely forgotten its existence. But now Dorian’s frantic voice blared out from it as though he were holding it right to his lips as he shouted:

 _“Come to Tevinter—you can stop fighting! You can live, you must live, Ixchel! Please…”_ Dorian’s voice splintered with agony. _“Please don’t do this to me. You can’t—I can’t do anything here, Ixchel—”_

The crystal dropped from Ixchel’s shaking hands and rolled into a puddle, but the voices were unaffected:

 _“I can’t do this, Dorian!”_ her own voice scream-sobbed back, out of the crystal. _“I can’t give up on him, I can’t stop trying! But I need to! I need to, Dorian! It will kill me one way or the other—I can’t just forget!”_

There was a wail of mortal agony in her voice, but it was not from a physical pain. It was from something shattering inside her for the very last time.

_“No matter how much I love you, no matter how much Cassandra tries—it’s never enough. Nothing will never be enough to stop this pain. I’ve tried, but nothing, no one will stop it as long as I know what’s happening out there… I need it to stop.”_

_“I understand—my dearest, dearest friend—but please—”_

_“I’m sorry.”_ And her voice had gotten small, choked with tears. _“I don’t want to hurt you, Dorian, but—I hurt so much more.”_

_“Ixchel!!! Ixchel!!! No! No! Ixchel—”_

Ixchel stared down at the crystal, unseeing. Her vision was too full of tears that would not fall. She stood there with Dorian’s screams echoing in her ears, and she waited for judgment to fall upon her.

So that was what it had taken from her. Not the terrible numbness of the deathroot. It had left that there, to torment her when she sought to evade the Nightmare with bitter herbs. Not the despair itself that had driven to her such means. That had been too entrenched in her heart and soul for it to extract.

No.

It had found _this,_ her biggest regret.

When she couldn’t tell Dorian the truth, it had made him find out the truth in the worst way possible.

It was the only _abjectly cruel_ thing she had ever really done. Dorian had known her so well, cared for her so much, and she knew how much it would hurt him if he knew how low she had fallen. She knew how much it was going to haunt him for years to come, that he could do nothing for her in that terrible moment. She had known, but she had also _needed someone to know,_ and so it had been him, the last person who saw her so clearly and loved her still—

Her biggest regret, and what she was most afraid of: that part of her that could be so hopeless that such considerations had been laid by the wayside.

Perhaps he had deserved this revenge upon her after all.

There was silence all around her. Not even the Nightmare spoke.

And then Dorian approached.

He walked past Ixchel and bent to pick up the crystal. He straightened slowly and did not meet her eyes as he turned the tiny pendant over in his hands.

“Those Still Ruins,” he said at last. His voice quavered tellingly. “I knew there was something…connecting you and time magic.”

Ixchel continued to stare at the ground.

“Time magic?” Cassandra repeated incredulously. “ _That’s_ what that was? A Redcliffe?”

Dorian shook his head. “No, that was a memory, from Ixchel’s past. Because Ixchel is from a future,” he said slowly.

Ixchel swayed a little. “A future,” she repeated. Not _the_ future. That was right, at least. She hoped.

“But—I do not understand,” Cassandra said helplessly. “You came back in time?”

The Inquisitor wrapped her arms around herself.

“I believe she had to have been _sent,”_ Dorian said. His voice grew softer, lower with every word. “Because that was the moment you tried to kill yourself, wasn’t it?”

Ixchel blinked, and tears splattered at her feet.

Calpernia was staring at her from the side, white as a ghost and trying to make herself unnoticed—aware that she was an intruder in what should have been the most private and terrible of moments.

Solas, too, was utterly, terribly silent.

“Just as it does not matter what story you tell yourself about what I am,” the Divine said, suddenly standing beside Ixchel, “it does not matter from where the Inquisitor was sent. I am helping you escape the Fade. She is helping you save your world.”

Ixchel closed her eyes entirely. They could discuss what they liked, come to whatever conclusions they would come to, but she needed to find the strength to move forward, and she could not do that with Solas’s eyes boring into her back.

Without looking at anyone, she turned and set off slowly in the direction of the Nightmare.

And they let her go.

To her surprise and dismay, she found a statue of Mythal not far down the path. But finding no place more dry to sit, she lowered herself to its feet and leaned back against the damp stone, still hugging herself.

She sat there with her eyes closed and tried to regain control of her swimming head.

It was easier than she expected. In fact, she had a gauzy sense of detachment from the situation.

Now they knew. They knew she had come from some future where she had ‘given up’ because of ‘the pain.’ If she were lucky, that’s what they would focus on.

But she knew better than to hope for that. If any one were to pick up on _who_ she had given up on, it would be Dorian and Solas. And she did not know how to answer them if they asked.

She could lie and tell them it was Corypheus. That this was the very struggle that had claimed her.

But no matter what, Solas could always tell when she lied.

**_“Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”_ **

She did not raise her head, did not listen to hear Solas’s response.

_**“Ma banal las halamshir va vhen…”** _

Ixchel wept as the Nightmare turned her own words against him.

**“Yes, go to her. Abandon them and besmirch her memory, all for a quickling _rahngirem_ who will never satisfy you and your Pride.”**

She wept for Solas, for his fear of _hares,_ and wondered if his suffering for Mythal had been the first step on his _din’an’shiral_ to restore his People.

_You are not an acceptable sacrifice._

Ixchel wept for Solas—for all he had suffered, for all he had sacrificed. She wept because she had asked him to sacrifice her, too, and he had said _no, vhenan._

But he couldn’t say no for himself.

And she wept for Solas, that she would be forced to tell him of the pain he had caused her, the sacrifices he had made, the terrible fate he had found for the both of them.

 **“He did not love you enough to kill you,”** the Nightmare whispered. **“None of it was real, and he burned the nightmare—with you in it.”**

Solas stopped a few feet away from Ixchel and stood there, motionless, his hands at his sides. Perhaps he was at a loss.

There was simply too much to address. The distance they had come, the hurdles they had surpassed, only made this that much more catastrophic: the foundation of everything they had built was threatened.

She didn’t dare allow herself to hope to know what was in his mind, so she feared, instead. Every fiber of her being quivered in anticipation as she waited for him to be cold, to be cruel, to accuse—

“Whose vallaslin is on your heart?” he asked, in a hushed voice.

She glanced up at him and found that, as this terrible truth dawned on him, he saw her in a new light. But so much of what _she_ saw in his eyes was so terribly familiar to her.

“Please, don’t look at me like that,” she begged. “With pity. With that grief. You knew I was shaped by tragedies.”

His face hardened, but that was not better. “You called me your _god,”_ he said more forcefully. The tension within her drew close to snapping. “It wasn’t just that you suspected. You knew. _I did that to you.”_

“If you can consider _your_ world a different world than this,” she said, nearly spitting with how strongly her anger and her sorrow and her fear all mixed within her, “just because it lives in the _past,_ then you can consider _him_ different than _you,”_ she replied. She pressed her eyes against the leather of her vambraces again and exhaled heavily through her teeth. “Because I do.”

He drew one step closer, but he did not kneel, and he did not reach for her. The weight of his silence spoke volumes, and it infuriated her to know the wheels in his mind were turning—and that she was not privy to whatever self-hating narrative he was spinning for himself.

“You are not him!” she half-shrieked to her knees. “You are _not_ him!”

“I called you _vhenan,”_ he said with wretched disgust. “And I drove you to _suicide.”_

Ixchel shook her head and sobbed. “He didn’t tell me until the end,” she protested. “We were never… ‘ _Ane mala vasreëm.’_ Cole told me that’s why he left. He thought it would free me, and him.”

Solas drew a startled breath. “So why, then?”

Ixchel trembled. She knew that she owed him whatever answers he wanted from her.

Solas knelt now. His hands lay upon his knees, palms up in a non-aggressive show.

But his voice was unyielding.

“Tell me now, Ixchel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.  
> Dirth ma, harellan - speak/tell me, rebel/liar  
> Ma banal enasalin - you care for nothing but victory / your victory was nothing / your victory was the blight (my favored interpretation is that...the nightmare meant all of the above because he's punny like that)  
> Mar solas ena mar din - your pride will be your death
> 
> “Ma banal las halamshir va vhen…” - you do nothing to further/help your people
> 
> rahngirem - chattel/slave
> 
> Ane mala vasreëm - you are now free


	104. Telanadas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so maybe...maybe i cried a little too...
> 
> 12/28/20

“I was tired,” she said wetly. “I was tired of being Thedas’s hope. I was tired of being alone.”

Ixchel rested her head on her hand and closed her eyes as tears weighted her lashes.

“I was sixteen when I went to the Conclave. I’d never had a family before. I’d never had a home. And then I had the Inquisition, and I had Skyhold…” She exhaled slowly. “He and I had always been close. I figured out who he was on my own, long before we defeated Corypheus. But after we won…he left, with no explanation. And… Two years—nothing, I couldn’t find him…and everyone started to leave.”

She swallowed what felt like glass or embers, but they were just words.

“I disbanded the Inquisition. What was left of it. And then…when the Anchor was going to kill me…he drew me through Vir Dirthara to the hidden valley, and he told me his plan for the world…and why.”

She paused as tears dripped down her face and her throat tightened to the point where she did not know if she could continue. But the truth—it was her truth, and she would be the one to claim it. Not the Nightmare with its manipulated glimpses. Not Solas with the shadows and self-hatred in his heart.

The truth, once spoken, began to pour from her mouth, and a pressure in her chest began to ease even as her heart broke anew:

“I asked him to let me help, but he refused. I asked him to kill me instead, but he refused. And I realized—he _wanted_ me to stop him! He took my arm and saved my life and left me with _vhenan.”_ Her voice broke, but she had continued to strain, and the words fell from her mouth broken into sounds that meant nothing to her own ears. “While I lived, I knew I would always try to stop him…but I was so alone…and I was so _tired.”_

Ixchel was suddenly so exhausted and hopeless that looking at him did not seem so terrible. She raised her head enough to peer at him through swollen eyes, and she found his face wet with a sheen of his own tears.

But there was a hatred in his gaze that she had never seen before.

She wanted to howl. She wanted to tear her hair. _It is not you!_ she wanted to scream. But the anger she saw, she recognized, for it was the very same that she had so often swallowed. Ixchel tightened her fingers on herself as her resentment and _pain_ welled up within her fresh as the day the wounds had been inflicted.

And she gave voice to it at last.

“Yes, it was cruel,” she warbled. “He would tell me he loved me, but deny my desire to be together. He would tell me I had made him realize that world’s worth, but he still destroyed it. He would tell—”

She cut herself off with a sob.

“And in the end—I don’t know what happened—I was nothing, I was no one, I was part of a multitude, and then he was there, and he gave _everything_ to me.” She held out her arms to illustrate. “He gave me the body he remembered. His power. His _hope._ Everything he did was to spare me his _fucking_ burden, but then at the end he put it all on me again!”

Ixchel yanked her arms back close to hold herself together. She was shaking from head to toe with anger and pain. “But I was already being called back by _Dorian. He_ gave everything to pull me back, and he opened a rift and threw me out at the Conclave.”

A terrible sound wrenched from her chest, and she curled ever inward.

“The blood of so many worlds is on my hands. Yours, mine, and Redcliffe—twice over!”

Her exclamation cut through the air and left a bitter silence in its wake. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“And I have yours on mine,” he said at last.

Ixchel clenched her teeth and threw back her head to give him a vicious look. “You are _not_ him!” she shouted. “Just _don’t be him!”_

Solas rose to his feet and towered over her—every inch the god, every atom of him full of grief and despair. The Fade did not respond, and the Veil did not warp, but Ixchel felt the magic _inside_ her twist in response to his anger and his despair. Mortal as he could be, he was a storm as much as he was a man—a force of nature—

“I will never be anyone but myself, Ixchel,” he said venomously.

“Just because you know you are capable doesn’t mean it is inevitable!” she bellowed. “Our paths need not end there!”

“I deserve worse than death for all that I have done!” Solas snapped back at her. “For what I would do if—”

And they both seemed to forget how to breathe for a moment. Ixchel’s every muscle had seized, waiting for what he was about to say.

Solas’s chest rose and fell once, in a sharp, shallow breath. His throat worked around the words.

“…If you had not made me doubt my path.”

The cool relief in her clashed with the fear and the anger in her and only wound her tighter. Fresh tears, angry and aggrieved, poured down her face. She could hardly see him, but she stared up at him miserably. “I _have_ to believe it’s not inevitable,” she said.

His eyes searched her face for a moment too long, and he shrank back—almost imperceptibly, but she felt it as though he had pulled her heart from her chest and set off running with it.

“Solas,” she whispered. “You doubt. You _regret._ That is more than any of the would-be gods I have faced. That is more than the would-be gods _you_ faced. And you have seen more paths available to you than he ever did. Telanadas.”

“This entire time, you have been trying to save your world,” he said. “You have been equivocating, and analyzing, and predicting…carrying…working…”

Ixchel offered him a tired, sore smile, then lowered her face to the ground and sniffed. “Am I not _Rogasha’ghi’lan?”_ she croaked wearily. “It’s who I am. It’s what put me in that dark place before.”

Her throat worked painfully around her what she was about to say. “I meant it when I said that _whatever_ you are to me, I want us to face the path ahead together. We don’t… You don’t have to feel… But loving you is not a _strategy,_ Solas. Please… Believe that.”

Solas nearly staggered. “But how you could _possibly…_ You _shouldn’t,”_ he said, grimacing against the pain of it, and the tears were in his voice now. “How could you…?”

“I didn’t at first,” she insisted tearfully. “Everything the Nightmare said had a grain of truth at its heart. That doesn’t mean it’s the _only_ truth, Solas.”

She rose painstakingly to her feet.

“I did not always love him, and I did not always love you. But I have always _cared_ about you. This—”

Ixchel gestured between them, to illustrate their relationship, as complex and confounding as it had so often been.

“—has always been _about you_. Trying to see _you_ and not _him._ Trying to hear _you_ and not him. Trying to understand _you_ and not him! And I have seen the shadow your pain casts! I have seen the grief in you! And I know the pain I saw in him as he walked the _din’an’shiral_ —and I don’t want that for _you_ because I am your _friend!”_

Solas closed his eyes and another tear streaked down his dirty, blood-stained cheek.

“You fight for the freedom of all thinking creatures. You fight for the overlooked, the downtrodden. You are _beautiful,_ and you create beauty.” Her tears had not abated in the least, but nevertheless these truths brought a pained smile to her own face. She reached for his hands, and he did not draw away. “You are the kind of person who _would_ walk the _din’an’shiral_ for your People. Why couldn’t I love you? Why shouldn’t I love you?”

Solas’s grief nearly tore him. It reached his ears, his mouth, his eyes—everything about him was crushed under the weight of her words. “You _cannot,”_ he said raggedly.

Ixchel’s grip tightened on his hands. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.” She swallowed thickly. “I… Alright.” She bowed her head. “I am sorry for hiding this from you. I… I knew I would lose you either way. _Ar ame ir abelas, lethallin—”_

And suddenly he returned the grip on her hands as everything about him tightened. A terrible shudder tore through him. “ _Ar lath ma, Ixchel,”_ he said wretchedly. “But it will never be enough.”

“You are,” Ixchel insisted. _“You_ are. For me.”

She looked up at his shimmering eluvian eyes; a fresh wave of tears crested his lashes and spilled down his cheeks, and she told herself again: _he is not him._

He contemplated her for a moment longer, then raised his hand to trace his thumb across her bottom lip. All of the cracks and fractures in Ixchel’s heart burned with something like hope.

“You have walked your paths with open eyes,” he murmured haltingly, “but that was not only foreknowledge. It was hope. And faith.” He swallowed. “I will not be the one to take them from you now.”

Solas leaned forward and slanted his lips softly across hers. She tried to kiss him back—she wanted to—but the feelings within her were engaged in too violent a war. She broke away and buried her face in his chest, sobbing, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly to shroud her.

 _“Ir abelas, ‘ma’lath,”_ she pleaded. “I have been so afraid of telling you.”

 **“With good reason, _da’len!”_ **the Nightmare interrupted viciously. **“Pride would remake the world in your image…and you would ruin it, just like you ruin everything you touch.”**

Ixchel realized that the Nightmare’s voice was uncharacteristically _angry_ as it harassed Solas, and she clung to him more tightly to help him weather its fury.

**“You never could get the likeness right, painter.”**

Solas exhaled heavily into Ixchel’s hair. He dug his fingers almost painfully into her arms as he held her, holding him.

“There are many things I need to know, Ixchel,” he said, voice quavering. “I do not know if we have the time.”

She pulled him down again, to sit at the feet of Mythal, and they curled around each other tightly. “Ask, ‘ _ma’lath,”_ she whispered.

“You said two,” Solas said. “Two betrayals.”

Ixchel nearly bit her tongue. “I’m glad I’m back, but I’m also…” She swallowed. “I had _decided._ And of anyone in the world—” her throat was full of tears again “—Dorian _knew._ And he took that from me.”

Solas shivered. “And so you stayed behind in Haven? To reclaim your choice?”

Ixchel scoffed a little. “I knew what I was capable of,” she said, “and I’ve never been afraid of Corypheus, or his dragon, or the Fade.” She paused. “But I’m afraid of the part of me that’s _tired._ And I was _tired._ As I often am, of forcing myself to hope.” She brushed at her eyes. “Cole and I have talked some. Before Haven, after Imshael…the night I spoke to Bull… It’s a hard choice. Hope. But…it’s been easier, lately.”

His breaths were becoming far closer to sounding like sobs. “I introduced Cole to Wisdom,” he said shakily. “After you saved her…You saved her because you knew?”

“I saved her because it was right.”

He was quiet for a while as he fought to regain his composure.

 _“Din’an Hanin_ —and the Revenant?”

“I don’t know.” She swallowed. “There’s something inside me I don’t understand. Something Cole and Amarok see…” She wriggled her arms free to look down at the Anchor. “It _does_ tie me to you. It _does_ interact with the Anchor. But…there’s more than that, and I don’t understand.”

He did not meet her gaze as tears continued to roll down his cheeks. “I do not know enough of what happened to know what could have gone wrong as the Veil came down… I do not know why I chose to find you, instead of restoring my people… I do not even understand how it was possible to do so…” He drew a shaky breath. “Perhaps that is why you are so strange… In so many ways, you are like the Elvhen. But in so many ways, you are not…”

Ixchel took a deep breath. “I have one guess. But…Solas, there is one more thing I must tell you.”

He held her tightly and nodded.

“Mythal… A part of Mythal…is alive.”

Solas’s grip on her shifted, but there was not so much shock on his face as there was the same deep concern that he had worn this entire time.

“She used someone to obtain the soul of the Old God Urthemiel when it was slain,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t understand how…or what it means…but I think… Do I have it?”

He closed his eyes slowly. “Ixchel…”

“I know that it’s the Titans singing through lyrium. But the Calling I hear in red lyrium…the way I can sense Blighted things…the whispers we just heard—”

“They have found the dreams again.” Solas bowed his head and rested his forehead against her temple. His voice was swollen and tight. “You are not under a geas. Let that be a small comfort.”

“If I have it, then that means he had it, which means he took it from Mythal,” she said. “Can you take it from me? Must you?”

“No,” he said immediately. He sighed heavily in her ear. “That…that is something we can discuss later. Among…so many other things.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I know.” He leaned back to gaze into her eyes. “I am as well.”

She cupped his face in his hands and brushed away his tears urgently, though her own had started to flow again. “The last time I was here, it was Stroud, Hawke, Varric, you, and Cassandra. We couldn’t defeat the Nightmare, and Hawke stayed behind to cover our retreat.”

His lips quirked in a poisonous, self-deprecating smirk. “Ah. So that is why they are not here.”

She gave him a sad look. “I avoided so many terrible things. I wanted to avoid this most of all. I was so afraid of this… It has two Aspects—it _is_ a Fear demon, but it’s…so much worse.”

“We will escape,” he promised. “We will keep the first Aspect out of the way, and you must be single-minded in opening the rift. Then, everyone must flee, and you must close the rift before the Nightmare can follow.”

Her heart felt brittle. Their relationship, their trust, felt brittle. “I don’t want you to stay behind. But…I know…the Black City…”

“That would be impossible,” he assured her darkly. He did not break her gaze, did not look away. _“We. Will. Escape.”_

She nodded and sniffled. “I trust you, Solas.”

His eyes creased at the corners in a look of painful, disbelieving adoration.

“What else will the others see?” he asked.

Ixchel shook her head slowly. “It’s the moment he left, the first time,” she said. “At the end of the battle with Corypheus I have a blank spot. But… I don’t think it will reveal your secret.”

She could feel his relief.

“I think that’s all,” she said. “Unless our host decides to out you.”

His lips twisted again, and his eyes flickered up to their goal in the distance. “We shall deal with that if it comes to it,” he said. “I am beginning to guess… I doubt that it would be so direct.”

Solas chuckled and raised his hands to cover hers, where she still cupped his face. He held on to her wrists and sighed. “You are my happiness,” he said. “You are my love… But this has shaken us.”

Ixchel bit her lip as his gaze found hers again, dark and serious.

“It will be as much an exercise as it ever has been, to trust each other. It will never be enough, but my word…my word is a start. _Var lath vir suledin.”_

He sealed his vow with a kiss despite the tears and the gore and the grime hat coated both of them. She accepted it, tucked the promise deep within her, and kissed him back.

-:-:-:-:-

Solas led Ixchel back to the group by the hand, all pretense of maintaining their professional distance gone. Yet with every step, Ixchel’s conviction wavered.

The Divine had taken on her bright Spirit form in her absence, it seemed, and had prevented their companions from following her and Solas. Calpernia stood off to the side, her arms crossed and back turned to give Dorian and Cassandra some semblance of privacy. Cassandra was pacing and muttering to herself; Dorian was seated on a rock, the crystal hanging from his clasped hands in front of him as he contemplated it with utmost gravity.

Cassandra rounded on her with wide, shining eyes. “This changes nothing!” she said vehemently. “I may not understand the magic involved, or the choices made—but I understand _hearts!_ I understand pain. And you are my friend above all else, Ixchel.”

Ixchel immediately started to cry again. Cassandra hesitated a moment, and then grabbed Ixchel by the shoulder and roughly pulled her into an embrace. Solas released her hand, and Ixchel clung to Cassandra as she always had: her rock, her shield, her beacon of hope.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Cassandra. “For so many things you don’t know.”

“There will be time later to tell me, or not,” the older woman said. “First, we must get out of here.”

Ixchel nodded and slipped away from Cassandra at last. She wiped at her eyes in vain as she approached Dorian.

The muscles of his jaw shifted, and he did not raise his gaze to her immediately. “I knew I always saw a piece of me in you,” he said. He turned the crystal over in his hands, and then he held it up for her to take.

She wrapped her hand around his instead. “And I, you,” she said. “I have a troubled relationship with mirrors.”

He met her eyes at last, and Ixchel realized that none of them had escaped the weight of this revelation untouched. Dorian’s eyes were rimmed with red.

She swallowed. “Do you doubt me?’

“What? As a leader?” He snorted and rolled his eyes. “We already knew as much.” Then, he wilted. “It just…hits differently, hearing it. Knowing that I…”

Ixchel rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. “It was cruel of me then,” she said. “More so, now.”

“So what happened?” he asked in a crackling voice.

Ixchel bit her lip. “The end of the world,” she said, a little louder than before, for Cassandra and Calpernia’s benefit. “With the Veil torn asunder, you channeled the raw power of the Fade, just like what was attempted at the Still Ruins. But you knew more of time magic, by then.” She gave him a weary smile. “And it worked.”

But her words only seemed to hurt him further. He pulled his hand back away from hers and covered his face with it. “I did that to you?” he repeated. “I _took that_ from you?”

Ixchel was at a loss for words. But _of course_ , Dorian knew what it meant to her. Of course, Dorian of all people understood what a cruel, cruel act it was to resurrect her and send her back. That’s what had made it so terrible, such a _true_ betrayal, in the first place. That was why even now, she had not forgiven him for doing it. Even though she was, also, glad to be alive.

“Yes,” Ixchel said simply, because that was all there was to say, really.

Dorian shook his head. “I am _so_ sorry, Ixchel.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, a little sharper.

When he simply shook his head, Ixchel leaned down to grasp him by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “What’s happened, happened,” she said quietly. “I was cruel for telling you. I was cruel for doing it. I was right to do it, and it was wrong. And now… _Especially_ now, I know better than to think I can survive this life on my own. Now you know, and Solas knows, and Cassandra knows, and—and I have no excuse to let that happen ever again.” Her lip trembled. “I lived a life where I felt like I couldn’t lean on anyone. And now I have a life where I know that I can. I wouldn’t have that without you, Dor.”

“You and your _fucking_ disparate truths!” he barked at her. “Oh, _mula.”_ He embraced her tightly.

 **“Cassandra, Cassandra, Cassandra… Everyone you respected—the holiest, the most faithful, the most courageous, still faltered. Look at the evil they sowed, the failures they reaped!”** the Nightmare said with relish. **“Why should you even try, doubter? What good can you hope to do where even the _Inquisitor_ and _the Divine_ failed?”**

Ixchel turned back to Cassandra with concern, but the woman simply unsheathed her sword.

“That demon needs to shut up!” she said vehemently.

“I agree,” Calpernia called.

Ixchel swept her gaze across all their faces, and as she breathed deeply and tried to collect herself, she found that she was more than simply relieved. It was not only because she no longer carried a weight around her neck; she found a new strength in her spirit. She nearly smiled as she activated the chromatic great sword in her hand.

 _The spark of inspiration is with you,_ the sword whispered, as it always did. _Use it to restore what was lost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> telanadas - nothing is inevitable  
> Var lath vir suledin - our love will endure  
> Ar ame ir abelas, lethallin - I am so very sorry, my kin/friend


	105. When the Wolf Failed/Won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for breaking 200 kudos and 7k hits q____q <3
> 
> 12/30/20

Despite her raised spirits, their journey suddenly seemed endless. Ixchel tried not to let her heart sink at the sight of it. She walked with her dearest friends arrayed around her, and she drew as much strength from that as she could. But the new distance between them and their goal hurt, for what it meant.

“It is not their doubt for you that clings,” their Spirit guide said suddenly. She did not turn from the road ahead. “It is their doubt for themselves.”

“Because of me,” Ixchel said quietly. Solas’s grip tightened on her hand.

No one could really look at one another, and Ixchel could not think of what to say to brace them. And so the journey remained a long one.

They passed more shattered eluvians—for a total of five—but ignored the temptation to investigate them. It felt like they walked for hours uphill before the Spirit leading them suddenly led them off to a side path.

“You are coming upon the last fragment,” their Spirit guide said. “Your confrontation will follow soon after you reclaim it. Rest, as you need.”

Solas and Dorian gathered to distribute their potions, and Cassandra sat to meditate over her sword. Dorian then returned to Ixchel's side and handed her a healing elixir. "How are the ribs?" he asked softly.

"They've been worse." She knocked back the potion quickly and grimaced as she felt the wave of healing magic burn through her aching body. "Has Solas told you the strategy?"

Dorian nodded and lowered himself down to sit beside her. “How is it? The Anchor?”

Ixchel sighed and flexed her fingers. If she squinted through the glow that consumed her hand, she could see that the skin around the edges of the Anchor had darkened. “I don’t know if it’s what that Venatori did to it, or if it’s that and being in the raw Fade, but it hurts like a sunnofabitch.” She shrugged. “It helps a little, to use it. But using it also makes it tear into me more.”

Dorian’s brow creased. “Ah. So then…”

“I lost my arm,” she confirmed and he went pale. She tried to offer something comforting and came up with: “I mean, it’s not like I _ever_ use a shield. Hitting things with one hand isn’t that much different than hitting things with two.”

His lips barely twitched with humor, though he tried to interject it in his voice. “You mean to tell me I never came up with an arcane prosthesis for you?”

Ixchel, likewise, tried to keep her voice light. “You were a little busy.”

“Was I?” he asked, and there was something in his tone that was harder than she had expected. “Why _didn’t_ you come to Tevinter, Ixchel?”

She looked away to stare unseeingly at a gruesome Chasind-style statue in the distance. “There was something I needed to do,” she said carefully. “You all were preoccupied—you and Maevaris and the Lucerni had started to gain traction. Last count I heard, a sixth of the Magisterium, two Grand Clerics, and three First Enchanters had forsworn taking slaves and employed servants instead as members of the Lucerni.”

There was a movement out of the corner of her eye, and she found Calpernia looking at her intently now.

“Yeah, they were winning a lot of good will with the ‘spread the grandeur of the Imperium via exporting our magitek’ propaganda.” She closed her eyes and remembered the stark lights of Minrathous burning in the night, the doors that opened automagically as she walked past, the food kept hot in the stalls even in the coldest weather… She couldn’t help a small smile, though Dorian could not see it. “I could do without the flying buildings, but there’s so much suffering, so much hardship, that’s just unnecessary. And it doesn’t need to be on the backs of slaves.”

“Ah, so you _do_ understand how positively backwards and upside down everything is in Ferelden!” Dorian exclaimed.

Ixchel tipped her head back in his direction and grinned. “Blackwall and I were talking about Elvhen ruins once… We were in such awe: _‘These must have been bigger than proper cities, like Denerim! Val Royeaux!’”_

Calpernia let out an unladylike snort, and Dorian grinned at Ixchel. “Minrathous will _certainly_ put your southern cities in perspective,” he said. “You did visit, then?”

“Yes, a perfect winter holiday, full of lock-picking, disguises, and back-alley chases.” She snorted. “That’s usually why I was there—but yes, we had lots of fun despite the ears. And the face.”

“I imagine that saving the world might earn you good will, even there?”

She shrugged slowly. Cassandra had been quiet throughout the conversation, but she now stopped pretending to clean her sword. She looked at Ixchel. “The crystal… I was trying to help you?” she asked, and her eyes were narrow with the attention and concern she gave Ixchel now.

Ixchel whetted her lips, for her mouth had gone dry. “Yes,” she said. “You wanted me to join you at the Grand Convent.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, guilty and nervous. “I don’t know how much is good for you all to know? Maybe I should have thought of that. Well.” She shrugged. “Magister Pavus, Divine Victoria—you have bright futures ahead of you. Maybe. Unless we’ve changed things too much.”

Dorian chuckled. “Ah, yes. The theoretical treatment of timeline manipulations is enough of a headache…in practice, there are so many more variables—I understand.”

Cassandra’s lips had parted in shock, and she mouthed something to herself—perhaps ‘Divine Victoria?’

Ixchel was aware that all of this was being attentively listened to by both Calpernia and Solas, who were each silent and, ostensibly, meditating on opposite sides of their little camp. Solas now raised his eyes to Ixchel’s. “It will be a great temptation for your companions, to know what became of them,” he said. “You risk becoming the prophet the world thinks you are, _arasha._ Perhaps we should agree to some degree of secrecy before we return to the waking world.”

“I do agree,” Dorian said.

“As do I,” Cassandra said. “As I said—this changes nothing. You surely have been steering Leliana and Josephine with your foreknowledge already. Those of us who care about you, truly, cared for you regardless of this truth. There is no need to reveal it unnecessarily.”

Ixchel nodded hesitantly. “Thank you.”

Solas, Cassandra, and Dorian looked pointedly at Calpernia. “And what becomes of our…friend…when we leave?” Dorian asked.

Calpernia rose to her feet. “Perhaps this is the time. May I have a word, Ixchel?"

Ixchel stood. “I’ll hear it,” she agreed and followed the woman a little ways away to speak in some semblance of privacy.

Calpernia stood with her arms crossed uncomfortably and tipped her chin to look at the ground. “Do you know, then, what I was meant to be the Vessel of?”

“Yes,” Ixchel said grimly.

“The Elder One believes it possesses the wisdom of the ancient Elvhen gods,” Calpernia said. “A wisdom that will grant him the power to walk the Fade without the Anchor.”

Ixchel shook her head. “The Well of Sorrows contains the _wills_ of Mythal’s high priests,” she said under her breath. “Whoever drinks of it becomes the next in that tradition—and is enslaved to them, and to Mythal. That is more of a threat than you might think, Calpernia.”

Calpernia’s fingers tightened on her own arms. “And then he would have bound me and put me on a shelf, like a jug for his use!” she hissed. “A slave with two masters, and no mind to even desire freedom for herself!”

Something seemed to occur to her, and she peered at Ixchel curiously. “What if Corypheus drank of the Well himself?” she asked.

Ixchel stared at her in utter, blank shock. “What?”

“Let him serve as a slave to the ancient Elvhen—the cruelest irony for such a monstrous creature!”

Ixchel shook her head quickly. “We do not know what _their_ machinations are,” she said. “My people believe they are trapped beyond the Fade. We use them now as parables about honor and sacrifice, but few would like them to _return._ We _feared_ them and their power. We begged Andruil to spare us from her arrows. We begged Falon’Din not to wage wars with us as his fuel. Their wills could be just as cruel and tyrannical as Corypheus’s.”

Calpernia shrugged and chuckled a little. “It seems empires will be empires,” she mused. “The more I learn… The more I wonder…” She trailed off, and Ixchel gave her a look of understanding.

 **“You never considered failure before, in your Pride,”** the Nightmare boomed, yet Ixchel felt that it was speaking as much to her, and to Calpernia, as it was to Solas. **“Have you considered considering it, yet?”**

“It’s still worth trying,” Ixchel said. She shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to you, Calpernia. We never crossed paths—I only ever met Samson, and it was he who I thought was the intended Vessel.”

Calpernia looked at her for a long moment, then bowed her head again. “Erasthenes is dead. He…so luckily…happened to bequeath his title to me as his apprentice. Of course, I will not be able to claim it until the Venatori have been toppled in the Magisterium…” The blond woman smoothed back her hair slowly. “But when I do, perhaps our paths will cross again.”

"Your goals seem noble, Calpernia." Ixchel tilted her head in Dorian’s direction. “But what you’ve done, what you were willing to do—”

The mage gave Ixchel a small, gap-toothed smirk. “I have done nothing different than your Empress,” she pointed out, “or your Divine.”

“Not mine,” Ixchel corrected. “Cassandra’s. And you sold the Seekers of Truth to the Order of the Fiery Promise. That was purely cruel, Calpernia.” She held up her hands. “I have other things to deal with, and I believe in forgiveness over vengeance. But whatever justice she seeks… I won’t stand in her way.”

“That is fair, I suppose.” Calpernia shrugged. “As much as my curiosity begs me to lurk in your shadow a while longer—I am fairly confident in my ability to disappear in the confusion when we return to the waking world. You gave me Erasthenes and my freedom already. To repay that debt, you will have my vow of secrecy on all I have seen here.”

Ixchel nodded and held out her hand. They shook. “Thank you, Calpernia.” She looked at the other young woman sadly. “I am sorry.”

Calpernia’s severe features softened slightly. “Corypheus had positioned us as rivals, you know.”

Ixchel wasn’t surprised. “That’s irony on a number of levels, isn’t it.”

“Yes,” Calpernia said drolly. “You say you have a troubled relationship with mirrors, but…” She was quiet for a moment—even now, in what Ixchel felt was a moment of vulnerability, the mage would not allow herself to show _weakness—_ before continuing. “It has been uniquely trying, to lead an organization full of men twice my age. To fight for a future no one has _ever_ dared to envision. And to be held to a _destiny_ … However useful, it has been uniquely isolating.” She touched Ixchel’s shoulder. “Let neither of us go to that dark place. _Vitae benefaria,_ Ixchel.”

 _“Dareth shiral,_ Calpernia,” she replied.

When Ixchel returned, Solas extended a hand and pulled her down to sit in his lap. He held the Anchor between them in both of his hands and kneaded at where it cramped and burned the most, as though he could sense it. Perhaps he could. It hurt to have his fingers press into the tight cords along the back of her hand and push into her palm, but it dispersed some of the worse pain, so she gritted her teeth and let him continue.

“The moment we return—no matter what lies on the other side of the rift—I must stabilize the Anchor,” he said under his breath. “And you will require medical attention.”

She raised a single eyebrow at him. “How do you know?”

“Optimistically, you are severely bruised and have soft tissue damage to your knee and shoulder. You had trauma to your head,” he said, touching his temple very gentle to hers. “I am more concerned that you have a non-displaced rib fracture.” He glanced pointedly at the dented side of her armor. “It is difficult to tell. You have a high pain tolerance.”

“Oh, I do?” she mused. “Wonder why.”

He gave her a dour smirk. “A decade of adventuring would do it to anyone. But you are not anyone."

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think I have a cracked rib, Solas." She gave him an insistent look. "From experience. _And_ I’m not concussed.”

He sighed. “You could still have catastrophic bleeding—”

“I will seek medical attention immediately,” she promised. “And you will come with me and stabilize the Anchor. But don't worry in the meantime.” She settled closer in his arms. “I wonder what we will find. Last time there were significantly more demons.”

“Hopefully, a dead dragon.”

She snorted wearily. “I’m not going to go scouring the Abyssal Reach for it. I saw the…fragment…Corypheus put in it—so I think it’s definitely dead. Whatever he finds to replace it can’t be worse than an adult, Blighted dragon.”

Solas was quiet for a moment as he contemplated that. “No, there are few things worse than that. I doubt he will venture to the depths of the ocean to search for them.”

She remembered Ghilan'nain, then, and her monsters. She remembered the Frost Troll in the Frostback Basin, and its magic... “Solas, we have so much to talk about. I have so many questions I never had answered,” she murmured. “I came across so many of your frescoes, _'ma'lath_ …”

He laced their fingers together and held her hand close to his heart. “I will try to answer what I can, ‘ _ma’lath,_ but…” He breathed deeply, but she did not need to look up at him to see the worry on his face. “There will yet be some things…”

“Me too,” she said. “One step at a time. _Ir abelas._ I have had a weight lift—that does not mean I am ready to fly.”

He squeezed her hand. “We walk this path together.”

The Spirit, or the Divine, floated closer. “It is time.”

Ixchel groaned and picked herself up out of Solas’s arms, then held her hand out to pull him up. The rest of her party joined her with seemingly equal exhaustion. They were silent as it led them to the next memory.

Ixchel activated it without fear, and the Fade responded around them.

_And Ixchel was picking herself up out of the rubble of her final battle. She was gravely wounded, and her breath rattled wetly in her throat as she looked around for any survivors._

_They sky above them was calm, and only a thin, flickering sliver remained of the Breach._

_She found Solas, all in black, with her wolf pelt over his shoulder—hunched on the ground. His staff was nowhere to be seen._

_She staggered over to him. “Solas!”_

_He drew a sharp breath, and she saw what he was shielding with his body: the broken fragments of the orb._

_Ixchel slowed to a halt._

_“It is not—your fault.”_

_He set down the shattered remains of the orb and stood slowly. For a brief moment when he turned to her, the devastation was clear on his face. But as his gaze met hers, she took several steps toward him._

_“There’s more isn’t there?” she asked desperately. “What’s wrong?”_

_“It was not supposed to happen this way,” he said, almost pleading. He turned from her and looked across the shattered battlefield. “No matter what comes…I want you to know…”_

_He raised his face to the clearing sky, and for a brief moment, all she saw was the silver of his eyes._

_“You have made the world worthy,” he said. “I am grateful for all you have taught me…and I am sorry.”_

_Ixchel swayed on her feet. “Solas…?”_

_“Inquisitor!”_

_Cassandra raced toward her, clattering her way across the ruins. “Inquisitor, we must find a healer—healer! I have found her!”_

_Ixchel’s knees buckled, but even as Cassandra swung her up into her arms, Ixchel reached for Solas._

_But he had turned._

_And he walked away._

Before Ixchel—or anyone—could react to the memory, the demons were on them. It was going to be a fight to the top of the mountain, where the Nightmare lay in wait.

“Come!” their Spirit guide called. “There is no time! You must open the rift, Champion! Get through and then slam it closed with all your strength. That will exile this cursed creature to the farthest reaches of the Fade, and it shall not haunt you any longer!”

Ixchel was exhausted, nearly sobbing for breath as they trudged through knee-deep water, passing by wisps and dreaming minds who all turned their attention to her. The wisps pressed closer, and she felt them reach for the thing in her that responded so strongly to Spirits and the Fade and magic. But instead of tearing at her, they _pushed_.

Her exhaustion was pushed out of her and in its place was a growing font of strength. Solas gave her a warm, but sad look. “They know that if you succeed, they will be freed,” he said. “They give you their hopes, these dreamers, and the Spirits who wish to help them.”

The Spirit herself, too, burned all the brighter as they neared the Nightmare. When they reached the mouth of the cave that led to its bloody plateau, she put her hand on Cassandra’s shoulder. “If you would,” the Spirit said, “please tell Leliana…. ‘I am sorry. I failed you, too.’”

She slipped away and faced the monstrous spider that towered over the path to the rift ahead of them.

Ixchel covered her eyes as the Spirit began to burn like the light of the sun itself—and Cassandra cried out in horror. “No!”

The Fear demon’s form was framed against the blast, an ever darker shadow. It spread its many arms and roared.

 **“You cannot stand against me!”** it thundered all around them. **“You will die in agony—over and over again, in a Nightmare you can never escape!”**

Ixchel felt her skin crawl as Solas drew heavily upon the magic all around them, and though it seemed to cost him all his strength, he opened an inverted rift right above the Nightmare. Dorian wasted no time and unleashed a massive barrage of flames against the demon as it struggled in the pull of the pinprick hole in the Veil.

“Die, demon!” Cassandra roared and lunged into battle. Ixchel let loose a war cry of her own, a challenge to the Nightmare equal in conviction as its challenge to them. She took off around the edge of the plateau, making her way toward the point where she hoped the Veil was its thinnest—

“Do not step in the blood pools!” Calpernia warned, swinging her staff toward a wave of fearlings that dropped down from the walls.

Just as she neared the edge of the arena, the Nightmare appeared behind Ixchel, and one of its sharp legs shot out and hooked in a gap in her armor. She shrieked in pain as the point of it sank deep into her side—and with its claw in her, it dragged her around and slammed her into a wall. Its terrible maw, so much like an Emissary’s, yawned in front of her.

 **“The Chosen Champion,”** it snarled, dripping saliva and poison and hatred. **“Inquisitor First-Thaw, _Rogasha’ghi’lan,_ Herald of Andraste, _Vhenan._ They all claim you, yet you, thin-blooded impostor, will _never_ belong to them!”** It dug its leg deeper into her side and ignored the magic that fizzled against its back uselessly. She cried out in pain. **“The moment you say that which they do not wish to hear, they will burn you, just as they did their Prophet—just as the world you left behind yet burns—!”**

The blade of Dorian’s staff sliced through the Nightmare’s arm that pinned her, and Ixchel collapsed to the ground. She gripped the remnant of the leg and ripped it out of her side, screaming in pain and rage. But then she saw the demon turning its full fury on Dorian, she dragged herself to her feet and charged.

Ixchel and Cassandra jumped to Dorian’s rescue, but the Nightmare seemed to be growing _stronger,_ or at least fighting harder.

“We just have to run!” Calpernia shouted. “Go! Open the rift!”

Ixchel saw the massive spider form of the Nightmare begin to rise slowly back up the mountain from where it had fallen. There was no sign of the bright Spirit of the Divine.

She tore through the ranks of the fearlings and barreled toward the place where she needed to open the rift. Just as she had hoped, the Anchor found easy purchase in the frayed threads of the Veil, and she began to pull with all her might.

When the first pinprick formed, Ixchel felt the pull of the waking world just as she had remembered when the Wolf had found her long-dead soul and poured her back into reality. And she realized that here, she shouldn’t _pull—_ she needed to _push._ Instead of gripping the edges of the Veil in her fingers and pulling them, she spread her hand wide and tore it open as wide as she could.

The Anchor burned as bright as a star in her hand, and it burned more than her skin as she exerted her own inner reserves of power and will upon the Veil.

It began as a tiny pinprick, and then it hardened around the edges and became a lens of that strange crystalline substance she so often glimpsed at the center of rifts. It was a brittle thing, but as she forced it wider and the tension around its edges loosened, it became something more liquid.

And then—the rift rippled, and she saw a flash of white beyond the Veil—and through the slowly-opening rift came Amarok.

But the wolf was a wolf no longer. When he flew past Ixchel, it was with an otherworldly grace more akin to a liquid or a gas, and he became something far more massive than he had ever been in the waking world. Here, in the raw Fade, he was as mighty as a High Dragon. The giant white creature streamed pure Fade magic from his snarling maw, and he landed heavily on the Nightmare’s plateau. The Fear demon aspect of it was crushed beneath one of his mighty paws.

Her companions _sprinted_ out from under him and toward her. But Ixchel had no eyes for them. They were locked on the wolf with an overwhelming sense of horror.

 _ **“It is time, Champion,”**_ Amarok said. He fixed his blue, blue eyes on her and lowered his head. _**“I was chosen, and I have chosen. Go. Fulfill your promise!”**_

Ixchel faltered. “No!” she begged. “Amarok—!”

Arms circled her waist and dragged her up the hill toward the rift, and she fought them with as much strength as she had—though she had so little left. “Amarok!” she shouted.

 _ **“Lath sulevin, lath aravel ena,”**_ the wolf replied, and even as she watched, another set of eyes opened upon his forehead. “ _ **In elgar sa vir mana, in tu setheneran din emma na!”**_

And as the last of Amarok’s six eyes opened, Ixchel recognized in them her Regret.

The mighty Spirit of her Regrets raised its head to the shattered heavens and released a howl that made her _soul_ vibrate along its fault lines. If the Evanuris had not yet awoken in their Black City, surely they had heard this white wolf’s cry:

_Suledin!_

The last Ixchel saw of Amarok was his white fur blossoming red with blood as the Nightmare sprang upon him.

Ixchel landed heavily in a pile of bodies as Cassandra fell with her out of the rift. Hands were immediately on her, pulling her free and pointing her back at the rift. But she could not raise her arm, could not seal it behind them—

Solas took her hand that held the Anchor and raised it. “You must!” he said, with such exhaustion and pain that she knew he was right.

Her mind had started to slip from her even before she had finished pulling the rift closed, and she was unconscious before she knew if she hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from "Where the Willows Wail."
> 
> Amarok: Lath sulevin, lath aravel ena. En elgar sa vir mana, in tu setheneran din emma na. Suledin!- "Be certain in need, and the path will emerge. Take spirit from the long ago, but do not dwell in lands no longer yours. Endure!"
> 
> Lyrics from "Suledin," a song Ixchel sang to herself when she climbed through the snow after meeting Mythal in chapter...20!! Amarok isn't singing, just quoting, very auspiciously.
> 
> RIP hold-doggo.


	106. In War, Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everyone. I hope you all stay safe, stay home, stay warm. It's been a hell of a year and I'm still in Hell and it's gonna be hell for a while longer, but at least we have our lands of make believe, and each other.
> 
> 1/1/21

Ixchel’s mind resurfaced with a jolt as Solas drew upon the Anchor in an attempt to stabilize it. Her nails dug into his arm tightly as she wheezed, overwhelmed by the pain of the magic in her arm and the beating her body had suffered.

“You have prevailed, Inquisitor,” he said. “Your people come now to praise you. This will be but a moment longer.”

“Arghhhhh,” she groaned, and she tried to roll away from him, but he followed, murmuring weary apologies.

Cassandra sank to her knees beside them. She was breathing heavily. “M-my sword? My armor!”

Ixchel peered up at her through narrow, watering eyes. “Fade-touched,” she said through her teeth. Her arm spasmed with another flare of the Anchor, and she curled in on herself with a cry.

“This is the last of it—” Solas promised, but she wasn’t sure if she believed him. “You have been Fade-touched, too.”

 _“You’re_ Fade-touched,” she said nonsensically, and Dorian laughed somewhere behind her.

“There.”

Solas eased his grip on her, but she did not release her own hold on him.

“Help me stand,” she rasped.

He obeyed, though he staggered a little under her weight. He seemed to be just as exhausted as she was. As soon as she tried to straighten up, the wound in her side protested, and her knees nearly buckled. But she forced herself to raise her head, for her soldiers, and the Wardens, and her friends had amassed around her. The central courtyard of Adamant was once again alive with cheers and roars and shouts about their Herald stepping through the Fade once again.

“There’s been no sign of that Archdemon since it fell into the Reach,” Bull said, jogging up. “You really did a number on it!”

Ixchel offered him a pained smile and raised her head to the crowds. “Today we have triumphed over Corypheus, and over the Blight!” she shouted hoarsely. “We have robbed this darkspawn Magister of his pet dragon! We have rescued the Wardens from being sacrificed to his evil blood magic!”

The cheers grew into a roar of excitement. Clarel, Stroud, Rylen, and Cullen emerged at the front of the ranks, and Ixchel nodded at them soberly. “But we can’t forget the dangers of the unknown before us! Wardens—other Magisters Sidereal are yet free! Let this be a warning to you that these creatures command the Blight…and you too, if you are not careful! We have sent warning Weisshaupt. But we yet have need of your insights into the Blight and the darkspawn we face. We yet remain at war!”

Clarel saluted her, somewhat slowly, but nodded.

“Inquisition!” Ixchel bellowed, and her forces screamed and beat their swords against their shields and howled for their victory. “Inquisition! We are still at war! But today, we have won a great victory! We are the defenders—not of Orlais, not of Ferelden, not of the Marches, not of Tevinter—of _THEDAS!”_ She paused for breath as the cheers grew louder. “But Corypheus has lost his army. He has lost Orlais. He has lost his dragon. He will do his best to prove to the world that he is still a threat, that no one can stand against his magic. We must prepare for the Elder One’s tantrum—and so let us return, in victory, to our home. Let us return to Skyhold!”

As soon as she was done, she turned back to her close companions and dissolved into a hiccupping, gasping fit. A canteen of water was passed to her immediately. “Let’s get you to a healer, Sunshine,” Varric said. Thom came over and helped her limp out of the courtyard and led her to a stately set of rooms that had been converted into a war room of sorts. A healer followed quickly.

Cullen, Rylen, Clarel, and Stroud joined them there, as did most of Ixchel’s inner circle, though Solas, Cassandra, and Dorian were absent.

Ixchel was stripped of her armor and made to lie down, and when the healing magic finally began it was such a relief that it was nearly painful. It took all of her self control not to thrash against the healers as they knit her skin together and dispersed swelling and healed burns.

They sponged at her face and washed her hair as best they could while she lay there, to remove the blood of the red lyrium dragon. She was fairly confident that she hadn’t ingested any of it or gotten it in her cuts, which was a fear. Because they had lost the dragon to the Abyssal Reach, they had nothing to study. They could not know if it were truly Blighted or if it were simply a monstrosity of red lyirum, and there was no telling exactly how much the two shared in common.

Ixchel had been in Ferelden long enough during the Blight to know that she’d have _felt_ by now if she were tainted, at least, so she wasn’t so concerned.

As the healers worked, Ixchel gave her account of how she had intercepted Calpernia and then interrupted the charade of the ritual to goad the Venatori. She explained how the Venatori had been able to destabilize the Anchor, and how they had opened a rift that she closed. She was fairly confident, given what she had witnessed, that they had indeed killed the false Archdemon. Then she explained that she had fallen into the Fade, where they faced a being that styled itself as the Divine. She emphasized that they had to face their darkest fears and that none of them wanted to be pressed on it.

Then she asked for a report in turn. A whole day had passed since she and her companions had fallen into the Fade. There had been enough witnesses, and she had earned enough faith as the Herald, that her people believed she would walk back out of the Fade eventually. Cullen had been forced to allow their forces to move closer to Adamant to prevent a riot, because her soldiers wanted to witness her inevitable return.

“Our losses?” Ixchel asked, eyes closed with fear.

“Sutherland is crowing about the new burn he has on his left arm, like the Inquisitor.” Cullen chuckled. “Inquisition losses are light. Your infiltration plan ensured that by the time the army arrived, the Venatori were already on their heels. Having Templars on the front lines no doubt also helped protect Inquisition soldiers from the Venatori.”

Clarel’s face was gaunt, and her eyes sunken, haunted by more than merely lack of sleep. “We lost many Wardens to Venatori immolations,” she said, “and I fear now we may lose more as the mages and warriors remain at odds. Many of the senior Wardens were…lost.”

Ixchel stared at her. “That’s a shame,” she said flatly.

Stroud gave Clarel a dark look. “The Warden Commander is having a difficult time uniting the Wardens,” he said. “She fears that in-fighting will destroy us before we reach Weisshaupt.”

“So what do you want me to do about it?” Ixchel demanded. “That is not my mess to clean up. I already dealt with the Mage-Templar conflict.”

Clarel narrowed her eyes. “I would ask you to take in the Warden warriors, with Stroud as their interim Warden-Commander,” she said. “As you say, you have managed to mollify the Templars and Mages within your ranks. Perhaps they will be able to learn from them… And it is as you say, Inquisitor. You require our help in researching this Blighted lyrium.”

“You will take the mages to Weisshaupt, then?” Ixchel asked. Clarel nodded. “So be it. Stroud, if that is amenable to you, I will accept the Wardens in to our ranks as allies. But they are under your command; they are your responsibility, and as much as possible you must be vigilant for Venatori and Corypheus meddling with your minds.”

Stroud’s lips twitched beneath his mustache. He bowed. “Thank you, Inquisitor. Before Warden-Commander Clarel departs, we will see what information she can share with the Inquisition that is not known to the general Warden population.” He glanced at Clarel pointedly, and she bowed as well.

Ixchel nodded at him, then looked back at Clarel as well. “I would like to point out, Clarel, that if you had gone through with this plan, not only would you risk failure…you would have turned the whole of Thedas against the Wardens for the future.” She glared at the older woman. “You could have reached out to the Inquisition. You could have warned the Empress, or Tevinter, or the Marches. Instead, you would have cut the number of Wardens in _half_ in order to face twice the threat!”

Clarel’s cheeks had turned red; Cullen, Rylen, and Ixchel’s inner circle looked deeply uncomfortable.

But Ixchel rose painstakingly to her feet. “Whatever secrets the Wardens hide, you _must_ tell us,” she warned. “Your foolish pride, your vanity—whatever it was that drove you to such _stupid_ secrecy cannot halt you now. And when you reach Weisshaupt, tell them the same. If they refuse? The Champion of Kirkwall and the Blue Wraith can be _quite_ convincing. I trust that the next time I hear from you, it will be with such good news.”

The older woman’s nostrils flared with anger and shame. It seemed all the blood had drained from her face. “I thank you, Inquisitor,” she said very carefully, and bowed, and then stormed out of the room.

Ixchel nodded at Stroud again. “I do commend you, Stroud. It’s been an honor to fight for the Wardens with you at our side. They are lucky to have a true leader and advocate in you.”

He smiled thinly. “I hope I continue to protect them, even from themselves,” he said in a wry voice. “Inquisitor.”

As Stroud left, Ixchel turned back to her companions.

“Inquisition,” she said in a low voice. “I must return to Skyhold immediately. Those of you who are willing should as well. There’s truly no telling now what Corypheus will do… He could launch an assault on Skyhold. He could seek out a new dragon to corrupt to replace his pet. Our best bet now is to track him down and take the fight to him.” She sighed, then winced and held her side. “But we averted a great tragedy, on _so_ many different levels. And that wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t split up…” Her eyes found Varric’s, then Thom’s. “...or if you all didn’t have my complete trust.” She looked at Bull, then, and held his gaze. He stared back at he with an inscrutable, passive face. “So… Thank you.” She swallowed as her voice broke into a rasping whisper. “You are welcome to come, or stay with the soldiers. Same to you, Cullen.”

He shook his head. “I’ll stay longer yet. But you need to rest, Inquisitor. It sounds like you had quite the ordeal.”

Ixchel nodded, shoulders drooping. “For being in the Fade for so long, I really could sleep for a week,” she joked. “Thank you, everyone. I mean it.”

Bull helped her out to find Solas, Cassandra, and Dorian. Thom had gone to fetch a mount for her, so that they could head to the eluvian at the forward camp.

The cut on the side of Solas’s face had healed to a pink scar; Dorian’s robes were blood-stained, and he moved gingerly; Cassandra’s armor glimmered with the traces of the Fade, but in the harsh light of the Approach it only cast green shades across her weary face. She looked even greener when she saw the mount Thom had found for Ixchel.

“Look what Commander Rylen found!” Thom said, leading the bog unicorn. “Quite a gentle beast, really. And she doesn’t give a shit ‘bout the heat.”

Ixchel gave a broken laugh and stroked the bog unicorn’s waxy snout. “Hello, Faithful,” she whispered.

Bull lifted her onto the creature’s back somewhat gingerly, as though afraid the unfortunate thing would run him through or, perhaps, possess him. But Ixchel leaned against her neck and closed her eyes. Though the healers had tended to her well, she was sore and exhausted. And while the Venatori had been routed, prisoners taken, and few losses were sustained, amid her relief was a sharp, gaping loss. She tried not to dwell on it as her companions chattered around her; she wanted to let them have their victory. For it was a victory, and she had so little to regret. And that was the strangest, and saddest thing about it.

She mourned. But she did not regret.

-:-:-:-:-

She was unconscious when they reached the eluvian, and it was only as she was carried through it that she woke to the sound of its magic. She found that Bull still carried her.

“Man, it’s a lot easier to walk in here when I’m carrying you,” he muttered.

“It likes me,” she mumbled.

“Go back to sleep, _sataareth,”_ he said quietly. “We got you.”

When she woke next, Bull had laid her down on her bed. He gave her a wink and a salute as he turned to leave, and Solas stepped in behind him. She reached for him immediately, and he collapsed into bed beside her. He laced their fingers together and kissed her knuckles lightly. “No more Nightmare,” he said hopefully. She nodded, already falling limp again. “Rest well, Ixchel.”

“You too, Solas,” she said with a yawn. “You can wander again, my love.”

And it seemed that he did; in the few moments where her exhausted mind wandered the Fade somewhat consciously, she could feel his presence in the distance, but he did not intrude—and he indeed had no need to. No outside forces broke in to her dreams, and, for all that had happened, it seemed her mind was too spent to conjure fears of its own making.

She woke rested and whole after an unknown amount of time, and she slipped out of Solas’ arms to go bathe. He did not stir when she got up, so deeply asleep he seemed. She tried to keep quiet as she drew a bath, and she did most of her scrubbing still standing out on the tiles so that she wouldn’t slosh too much. Once she was mostly clean, she slipped slowly into the water and sank down into the tub with a sigh.

As the enchanted stones at the bottom of the basin pressed into her legs, warmth seeped into her and eased the remaining aches of battle. In that warm haze, tears pricked at her eyes. She tilted her head back as though that would keep tears from falling, and she breathed as slowly and evenly as she could to control herself. But of course, the more she tried not to think, the more her mind spun.

She raised the Anchor to cover her face. Though her grief stretched deep, it was not to that which her brain clung. Rather, it was the puzzle beneath it all: _who had chosen Amarok? Who had sent him to her? Who had taught him of the Emerald Knights, their guardians, and their oaths? Where had he learned_ Suledin?

And though Ixchel knew her regrets were numerous, powerful and potent, she did not know how Amarok had grown _so much_ to be a foe equal to the Nightmare, in so little time.

The fact was, she did not know much at all about hold beasts, or Spirits, or Elvhenan, or time magic. She was just a thug with a sword and enough brain cells to look back on her past and regret. For every mistake she fixed, for every blunder she avoided, for every life she spared, she put a regret to rest; now… There were few left. And that meant she had little to rely on for what was to come.

And now, she would have to soldier on without her Regret to guide her, and without Amarok to guard her and her people.

She felt suddenly as she had in Halamshiral, as she stood with Solas and thought: _Things are different._ It should have been hopeful. She had just saved the Orlesian Grey Wardens from annihilation and infamy. She had robbed Corypheus of one of his best lieutenants and thrown the Venatori into chaos. She had killed his red lyrium dragon and defeated the Nightmare. But the world was different now, and she didn’t know how to walk in it anymore. There was no telling if it was going to be better in the end for her meddling, after all.

Ixchel dug her fingers into her scars. _“Lath sulevin, lath aravel ena. En elgar sa vir mana, in tu setheneran din emma na,”_ she whispered to herself.

She dragged herself eventually out of the bath, dried herself, and returned to her room. Solas still slept soundly, covered as he was in battle grime and remnants of their trip to the Fade. She did not begrudge him, though she did wish he were awake for her to ask him many more questions. For, upon recalling Amarok’s last words, Ixchel had come to an uneasy conclusion.

Amarok had to have been sent, somehow, by Mythal.

She did not know what that meant for her, or for the strange magic within her, or for the future. She did not know what that meant for Kieran and Morrigan. And she did not know what that meant for Solas.

Ixchel dressed quietly and went to her desk. With a last glance at Solas’s sleeping figure, Ixchel took her quill and began to write.


	107. As Long as the Music Plays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/3/21

For as weary as her body still was, her mind spun wakefully with possibilities—the things she could tell Solas now, what there was to do to thwart Corypheus, the plans she could make… But her eyes betrayed her, and soon she was rubbing them with her palms and struggling to focus on the papers in front of her. She did not want to wake Solas prematurely by crawling back into bed with him, and also she had just bathed and the longer she looked at the layer of filth all over him, the less she wanted to be near him. So she curled up in a small ball on her chaise, a pillow hugged beneath her head, and napped to rest her eyes.

She was slightly more conscious now, however, and upon realizing that, she went in search of Cole. He appeared soon after she began looking for him. They were in Skyhold, down in the courtyard, and there were no soldiers, no healers, no workmen—only children running about. Ixchel could not make out the specifics of their features, and she knew this was a dream. But Cole watched them intently nonetheless.

Without looking at Ixchel, he picked up one of her arms and dropped it around his own shoulders, then wrapped his arms around her waist. He never looked away from the children.

"He always knew he'd have to leave," he said. "But he didn't know how much he'd love them."

Ixchel rested her cheek atop Cole's head and sighed as something burned deep in her chest, painful and yawning in its depth, like a sinkhole.

"I decided," he said quietly.

"Okay," Ixchel said.

"I want to keep helping them, like I can, and like Amarok did." Cole turned his head to hide his face in her shoulder. "I will be better at it, if I become more like I was. And I won't hurt innocent people again.”

Ixchel squeezed his shoulders. "Do you...miss him?"

"I think I always will," Cole said. "But he was always a part of you. And I made him a part of me." He touched his chest. "I don't need to be human to learn. It will just be easier to focus on learning the things I need to know, to help... And I learned from Amarok."

Ixchel held Cole in silence and watched the children play. Whatever Amarok had been, whoever had sent him, she was glad that he had found something that he loved. Ixchel hadn't realized until that moment that deepest cut amid all her loss had been the fear that she had only ever been a duty to Amarok, that he had been destined to die for her. But he had been able to protect and play with these children, and he had loved them. The children of his hold.

-:-:-:-:-

Solas's hand appearing on her head jolted her from the Fade in a flail of limbs.

Solas did not let her stand but rather squeezed in alongside her. Just as she had anticipated, the sharp smell of the Fade clung to him like air that had been sundered in the wake of lightning, as did a layer of sweat and dirt and the ever-present smell of old Blight that permeated the western atmosphere.

She was too distracted by the look in his eye to care overmuch, however. In fact, she was glad to be entwined with him; it reaffirmed to her that whatever they were about to speak of, he was not anticipating the need to flee.

He did not seem in a hurry to broach whatever heavy topic weighed on his mind, and that was fine. She brushed the backs of her fingers along his cheek, then touched the thin scar that streaked across his temple and up his scalp.

“I couldn’t spare you this indignity either,” she mused.

“Does it not make me rugged?” he wondered.

“Oh, very, my love,” she replied. She did not tell him that he had received a scar at Adamant in her other life, much the same as this. It would only disturb him, and she found that it did not disturb her after all. For all the pain she had endured—she had spared her people so much. A scar was an easy price.

Amarok, less so.

“Did you know what Amarok was?” she asked softly.

“He was a Spirit of some kind,” he said, “though I did not know if he possessed the body of the wolf or was, like Cole, one who crossed the Veil willingly... I knew only that he was not malicious.” He paused. “And he had become dear to you.”

Ixchel chewed her lip for a moment. “He was the Regret from Crestwood,” she admitted, and his brow creased. “I knew I could not let him shape himself to you… I have fought a Regret left by Fen’Harel before. But I never suspected that he… I don’t understand why. But you and Cole will be the only ones who know the truth about him,” she murmured. “We’ll be the only ones who remember him.”

He exhaled slowly. “For a time,” he allowed. “It is…strange, how we give life to things in the retelling. You have spoken so wisely of it.”

Ixchel tightened her grip on him, for something darker had crossed his face, and she sensed that he was gathering the courage to speak his mind now. She wished to impart her support without interrupting, and it was all she could do to hold him.

“Yet…to be presented with another self, as I have been…” He took a slow breath, then released it. “I realize how true it is that to speak of this self _is_ to give it a life of its own. And I do not know if I deserved that.”

Ixchel bit her lip. She had many contradictory thoughts to offer, each more panicked and willful than the last, but she knew better now than to equivocate preemptively. He was there. He was holding her. He was not about to flee on a whim.

“I have accepted many things, Ixchel. I have accepted that your love is true. I have accepted that you view the man who hurt you so, and the man I am now, separately… I have accepted that in an utter vacuum, you are far too compassionate and forgiving than anyone could ever deserve. And I have accepted that I cannot be so _proud_ as to believe I would be the one exception to your graces.”

Solas brought his hands up to hold her face close.

“I have accepted these things,” he said firmly. “I will do my best to act accordingly.”

“I know it’s hard,” she agreed under her breath. “I know. I know.”

He brushed his thumb across her cheek, across a scar. “If I reflect on our journey, I can see how it was not always so easy for you. I will try to remember that when my heart struggles to accept these things…that doesn’t mean I have failed. And it doesn’t mean they are wrong.”

She bit down on her lip harder. It was so difficult to contain herself in that moment, because each admission was a gift whose value to her he could barely begin to understand—yet, somehow, for as small of a glimpse as she had given him…it seemed that he _did_ understand. Somehow, she felt that he knew exactly how important it was for her to hear this from him, for him to articulate his attempts to accept. That in telling her that he was _trying,_ he was giving her a victory of a kind.

Ixchel blinked rapidly and burrowed a little closer to him. It seemed he still had not said what troubled him; he continued to stroke at her cheek, perhaps with more pressure now as his concern mounted.

“There are so many more important things you must do for the world, rather than satisfy my curiosity. But… I would know you, Ixchel. All of you.”

“You will,” Ixchel promised. That only seemed to make it more difficult for him to speak; his brows had drawn close with anxiety at what he was about to say. She sighed and brought their foreheads together. “What is it?” she asked.

“We could do it now,” he said.

She shrugged slowly. “Alright?”

“It…just would not be _…fair.”_

“I…don’t mind if you don’t want to talk about your past, Solas,” she said. “I told you that already.”

“I do not mean answering questions,” he said cautiously. “I don’t even speak of storytelling, or sharing a few memories conjured in the Fade… You are more capable than you should be, in the Fade, but that does not mean you are practiced enough to do what I speak of in return. Perhaps no one born of the waking world would be able to.”

“Solas, _what_ are you _talking_ about?” she asked.

“The crystalline moment—the awareness you have sensed, here, and in the Fade…” He closed his eyes, and that seemed to help. “I could inhabit you, just for the length of a dream, and I could know what it is to be you, my love. All at once. But you cannot do the same in return, and thus it would never be equal.”

Ixchel was quiet as she shifted his his arms, and she slipped one of her own under his to hold him around the ribs. She ran her hand up and down his back as she considered it. “Would I have to remember…all of it…again?” she wondered.

“Yes,” he said. “That is somewhat the point, and particularly why…even if you were to try… I could never _allow_ you to share in my experiences that way…”

“Because you would remember the Evanuris,” she mused.

“Correct,” he said quietly.

“It seems very useful, and I am terrified of it,” she said flatly. “Both of reliving those moments…and for having you _see_ them. I don’t think either of us are ready for that.” Ixchel gave him a squeeze. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t start. But all at _once…_ My heart couldn’t take it.”

He nodded, brushing his nose up and down her cheek alongside hers. She closed her eyes as his breath played across her face. “Ask me anything—telling it would be easier,” she urged him.

“Later,” he replied. “There will be time.”

He kissed her, but she pulled away. “Really?” she asked. “I don’t want to—to reject you, Solas.”

Solas tightened his grip on her and lay with his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, breathing more easily now that he had spoken his mind. “It is a new dance, _arasha,_ and we are learning the steps. That is not a direction I will lead you in now, and I am content with it. As long as it is an informed choice, I am satisfied.”

She dug her fingers in to the lean muscles of his back and pulled him closer, despite the grime. She wrapped herself completely around him and held him tightly. “Thank you,” she said. “I like knowing what I’m making decisions about.”

“I owe you that, _‘ma’lath,”_ he said softly. “Now…may I kiss you?”

“Only if you bathe after,” she replied.

He chuckled and pushed her a little, until he was laying heavily on top of her, his arms looped beneath hers to pin her in place against him. The look he gave her was as deeply awake and canny as he could ever be, and as he trailed his lips up her jaw, she tried to let herself melt into trusting his words, and his eyes, and his intentions.

“You did not say how soon after,” he whispered in her ear. “Perhaps I will kiss you for a very, very long time.”

“Hmm, is that a promise, _‘ma’lath?”_

It turned out that yes, it was.

Ixchel had already lost all concept of time, after being in and out of the Fade and sleeping so long upon their return to Skyhold. It could have been another year that Solas kept her on the chaise, pinned beneath him as he kissed her to his satisfaction. When she seemed sufficiently kiss-drunk, he undid the laces of her shirt and showered her body with kisses too, until she was boneless and warm and content beneath him. At the very moment that she felt her arousal climbing to a point where she might consider of acting upon it, he trailed a hand slowly up her body to cup her cheek in a chaste gesture.

“I think I am satisfied,” he said, and his voice contained a decidedly _unchaste_ note.

For as deliciously relaxed as she felt, the promise of his departure undid all of that with her surprise. She sat up quickly to give him a dark look.

He smirked, far too self-satisfied indeed.

She bit her tongue to keep herself from sending him to the Void. Instead, she tipped her chin up to kiss him, while she slid her hand down the line of his body to find the hard length of him in his leggings. “How about you go bathe,” she murmured against his mouth, “and then we can see how satisfied you really are?”

Solas gave her one last searing kiss. “As you wish,” he said. “I think I will obtain food as well.”

Ixchel stared at him. “I haven’t eaten in _days,”_ she realized.

He chuckled. “There are so many hungers in you, quick child,” he teased. He unfolded himself slowly from on top of her. “Will you rest?”

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. "No," she said. "I should go talk to Leliana."

"I'll pretend as though I had not heard that," he replied, and he tugged on her hand to lead her to bed. "You should oversleep as much as you can. You do not know how long you may have to be idle."

Ixchel supposed he was right, and she stood slowly. He held her hand a moment longer. "I might check on Lady Nightingale for you, before I return?"

Ixchel looked up at him and found him giving her a soft look of concern. She stood on her tip toes to kiss him, and he stooped obligingly to let her reach. "I would love you forever," she told him gratefully.

He was slow to open his eyes when she sank back on her heels. "Forever is a long time,” he murmured. Before she had a chance to address _that_ heady topic, he drew away from her. "I won't be long. Rest, Ixchel."

She nodded and went back to bed as he left for the door. She was groggy from her interrupted nap and the sweet haze he had induced in her, so she tumbled back into bed and fell asleep quickly.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke when Solas closed the door behind him, and she rolled over on to her side to watch him come up the stairs. He carried a tray piled with food that her eyes zeroed in on.

Solas grinned at her as she launched out of bed and went to meet him at the low table between the chaise and the couch. She sat on the floor and took the plates he handed her and set them out.

When he was done, he reached into his vest and withdrew several pieces of correspondence. She held them in front of her with a frown while he folded his long, lanky frame down across from her. But _that_ would not do, so she crawled around to his side and squeezed herself into the spot next to him, so that their shoulders jostled each other whenever they moved. He laughed shortly at her and pressed a kiss to her temple. "You have not had enough of me yet?" he teased.

"Find myself wanting more and more," she said, but she had turned her attention to the documents in her hand.

Letters had been sent to prominent scholars to pique their interest about the ancient Tevinter laboratory and the artifacts and documents the Inquisition had collected therein. Josephine had already received one response and expected many more from academics interested in collaborating on the analysis of their discoveries. Alexius had also been shown some of the documents and was making headway on translating and distilling their information.

She set those notes aside and picked up a troubling letter from the Prince of Starkhaven.

_Inquisitor—_

_It is thanks to your intercedence that the worst of the mage rebellion is now past and that civil discussions about their treatment and the safety of the public can prevail. However, the mage who started it all, who destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall and murdered Grand Cleric Elthina and dozens of the innocent faithful, is still at large. The fanatic Anders must be brought to justice._

_Though he may no longer be in the city, it is still home to many of his known associates. After our conversation in Halamshiral, I resolved to use the resources of Starkhaven to annex Kirkwall. Mage, Templar, and civilian tensions remain high, and I believe that by intervening in this way I might serve as a mediator from a position of leadership among them all._

_But Starkhaven's annexation of this notoriously troubled city has not proceeded as planned. The city's resistance opposes me. They forget that I do this for the good of the city and all the Free Marches._

_As a staunch ally of the Inquisition, I entreat support for this endeavor, that Kirkwall may be brought under control before more innocents are harmed._

_Sebastian Vael_

Ixchel pressed her fingers into her eyes and let loose a long breath. She handed the letter to Solas in exchange for a cheese pastry, which she inhaled while Solas read the letter.

"I confess, I have not finished reading Varric's book," Solas said. "Is this Anders truly a terrorist?"

Ixchel shrugged ambiguously, then thought for a moment and, sighing, nodded. "He blew up a Chantry," she said. "It set fire to the city… Hundreds of people died, for a statement. If Empress Celene is a terrorist, I must consider Anders one, too."

"Ah, but Celene has not inspired such an invasion as this." Solas set the letter down.

"Celene is not a mage, let alone a _possessed_ mage," Ixchel muttered. She poured herself a glass of water, then filled Solas's cup. "I haven't pressed Varric or Fenris about it, and I certainly didn't ask Hawke. But Anders was supposedly possessed by a Spirit of Justice who had been corrupted by his own anger at the treatment of mages in Kirkwall, and, I suspect became something more like Vengeance." She leaned against Solas's shoulder dejectedly. "I...don't know what to do about things like that, Solas."

"Murder of innocents is a crime," he said.

"Yes, but are _both_ Anders and the Spirit to blame? Is it one or the other? Is possession like that wrong? Is it possession or...or...cohabitation? Or...?" She sighed in frustration. "I already suspected this might happen, so I had Cullen help Aveline prepare for an invasion. I don’t know why Sebastian thought it’d help—it'll alienate the very population he wants to listen to him. But that makes me think it's less about mages and Templars and more about _Anders.”_

Solas handed her some fruit.

"But in the long term, especially if Cassandra becomes Divine, I should start thinking about these things. Mages are dangerous the same as people with axes are dangerous, but usually when someone grabs an axe you know it's that person who's trying to kill you and not some separate entity who may or may not be controlling someone else's body." She paused. "And just because someone became a puppet, does that mean they're evil or weak or deserve death or Tranquility?"

Solas did not interject, so Ixchel moved on to her next letter. It was a short one: the last word from Wycome was that Josephine's human diplomat had arrived and would be reporting back soon.

She set that aside and leaned her elbow against the table as she took a deep drink of water. Her eyes were focused unseeingly on a small bread bun, which Solas then picked up and offered to her. She blinked up at him first in confusion, then in melting appreciation. She took the bun. "Thank you," she said.

He smiled a little. They continued eating in silence.

She found that she did not have the largest appetite, and she finished eating rather quickly. She remained with her cheek supported on her palm, leaning on the table and watching him pick at the food with his elegant fingers.

“I don’t know the path forward,” she said softly. “But somehow… I’m not afraid. And _that_ frightens me.”

Solas’s lips twitched. “I know that there are darker paths than the one we are on,” he said, and he leaned back to regard her with gentle appreciation. “And you are not alone on it.”

She took his hand. “We’ll keep each other humble.”

Solas grinned at that. He laced their fingers more tightly together. “You may try.”


	108. Welcome Distractions**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/5/21

"Confidence and caution are not mutually exclusive," Solas said. "Certainly, caution should not preclude a sense of relief, or victory. The confrontation at Adamant was one of your greatest fears, or perhaps the summation of many of them. And you undoubtedly emerged victorious."

Ixchel sighed and nodded, her cheek still propped on her hand. "In comparison, sure... I had lost most of the Orlesian Wardens, lost a third of my own soldiers, lost Hawke, and..." She shook her head. "It felt like I had lost all my friends. Varric. The Commander. My soldiers. Cassandra... And this time I knew that if I fell into the Fade, there was no way I'd escape without the Nightmare telling my companions the truth. That was before it even took my memories." She gritted her teeth. "So...a fear and a regret."

He tightened his grip on her free hand. "So much of what you led us to had simply seemed so fortuitous, it is difficult to imagine the untold dangers of uncovering this plot too late..."

"Or not understanding its implications until I was standing in front of Clarel right after she sacrificed the newest recruits?" She fixed Solas with a deeply weary stare. "Now my greatest fear is finding myself there, again, on the edge of a new abyss I never saw on the approach... Because for all the wisdom I may I have gained over the years, I don't know everything."

Solas returned her stare measure for measure. For a long moment they gazed at one another with deep understanding. Then he tilted his head. "What would help you find solace?" he asked. "What would help you release the burden of these regrets that will no longer serve you?"

"I can't decide if I want to stay locked in here for a week, or fly across the length of Thedas twice over to show you all the things we can uncover," Ixchel said.

Solas raised a single eyebrow at her.

"Tempting," he mused. "...But..."

Ixchel had reflexes like lightning. She had to, for all the dragons and Ben-Hassrath and Sentinels she'd fought. And Solas, as powerful as he had grown over the months since they began this journey together again, as lithe and athletic as he was beneath the wilting hedge mage facade, was out of practice. When he pounced, Ixchel was already rolling out of reach.

She laughed at him and scrambled away. He sprang to his feet and gave chase after the hem of her shirt--the only thing she was wearing, since she'd spent most of the day in bed. Though her rooms had always felt so large, suddenly, now that she was pursued, they felt dangerously small.

Ixchel dove around her desk, leaped over armchairs, rolled over her bed as the Dread Wolf chased her. He finally caught her as she tried to scurry up the ladder into the loft.

His hand appeared tight on her calf to catch her, and she shouted with giddy laughter.

Ixchel loosened her grip on the ladder, ready to drop back down, but with his other hand on the back of her thigh, Solas pushed her back.

Her breath caught in her throat as she tightened her grip to anchor herself in place.

When he realized she had caught on to his plans, he let out a breathless chuckle and trailed his hands appreciatively up along the outside of her legs. "This is a new view," he observed as casually as though they were discussing the river valley from her balcony. "You are so small, I never thought to appreciate your legs."

Ixchel threaded her arms through the ladder's rungs and buried her face in them. It didn't matter that he could not see how red her face was. Perhaps it made his teasing more potent that she could not see him while he spoke.

Solas's hands swept up beneath the hem of her shirt and across her rump, then up her back.

She remained silent, ears perked and attentive to every whisper of skin against cloth. His hands traced burning paths back down her sides then around her front.

He did not have to lean far to nip at her thigh, and she jumped at the sharp sensation. His breath was hot against her skin as he laughed. "Hold on there, ' _ma'lath_ ," he murmured, so close to her skin that his lips grazed it with every syllable.

Ixchel _was_ holding on. Perhaps she was _too_ tense as she braced herself, because when he brought his hands back to spread her for him, his breath alone made her tremble. He was quiet for a moment, and she didn't know what he was doing--studying her with his eyes? Smelling her? The thought made her face burn and her skin crawl.

For all her anticipation, she wasn't prepared when his tongue left a scalding line through her folds. She clung to the ladder with all her upper body strength and hardly dared to breathe as he tasted her. It had only been a week or so since they last lay together, but it seemed like an eternity; her body still thrilled with incredulous anticipation of every move be made, and every pleasure was still a shock. His grip on her tightened and encouraged her to spread her legs further, and then he lifted one leg up to rest it on a higher rung and left her more open for his ministrations.

She made an incredulous sound in her throat, but then the change in the angle hit her--he could drink more deeply of her, suck and lathe at her clit more easily, and he was taking advantage of every such opportunity. For as much as every lick plucked at the white-hot tension in her, it was difficult to relax when she needed to stay somewhat upright.

But he was doing his utmost to challenge her _indomitable focus_ and strength of will. Her mind strayed--did he even need to breathe? In immortal days, how long was a partner expected to endure? How could she ever match him for his ardor or his stamina?

Her brain short circuited as he pulled a shudder from deep within her. Her knee nearly buckled, and that only encouraged him to pursue the same avenue with increased fervor.

Her first cry was muffled in her arm; perhaps that was why he did not relent. As her pleasure mounted precipitously toward a crest he only seemed to double down on his efforts around her clit.

Solas pulled away only when it seemed she was truly about to lose her footing. He rose up behind her and replaced his mouth with one hand while he brushed her hair aside to find her neck and ear. "I enjoyed seeing you wear the marks I gave you," he murmured. "They were gone far too quickly."

She wanted to raise her head, but something was stopping her--until he sank his long fingers up to the knuckle inside her fluttering heat. Her head dropped to the side with a quiet groan.

Solas flexed his fingers in time with the rocking of her hips as she sought deeper relief, and his wet lips found the back of her neck. She was surprised at how sensitive she was there; it made her spine arch with deep pleasure, and he pressed his chest against her back to keep her in place. With his teeth and gentle suction from his mouth he left a mark there, where none might see. She tensed, stretching up from her toes and hunching her shoulders as she fought to contain the white hot pressure that had mounted in her. There were tears at the corners of her eyes from how difficult it was to keep her grip.

Solas nipped at the tip of her ear, and she came undone.

He continued to pump his fingers slowly in time with waves of her release, pushing deeper as though he knew that's all she desperately wanted.

Her shivers abated at last, and she managed to raise her head and look back at him accusingly. "Can I--"

"No," he said devilishly. She closed her eyes for a moment as though to pray for internal fortitude, and then she opened them again and fixed him with a pointed look. He smirked and leaned in to kiss her as he withdrew his fingers.

When he pulled away, just an inch, to meet her eyes she found that his gaze burned with an untamed ferocity that could so easily consume her. But she had come to trust him so entirely--all these different faces and facets, from the demure Fade scholar to the hardened soldier to the insatiable lover and the man who had the power and knowledge to end the world.

Solas loosened his leggings and pulled himself free, already hard and flushed after tending to her for so long. He kissed her again, gently, and she immediately invited his tongue into her mouth to chase the taste of his efforts. She groaned into him as he pushed his length between her folds to spread her slick across his skin.

Solas sighed against her lips. " _Mar rodhe ir’on."_

Ixchel was fully lost to him, concentrating on holding on to the ladder and trying not to tense too much in anticipation of--

A long silent _oh_ escaped her as he pushed slowly into her. His strong thigh settled against her own as he put a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, and he settled his hands on her hips to ease her back against his cock.

They opened their eyes slowly once he was seated with his hips flush to her backside. He kissed her slowly, too, with shallow kisses that sipped her breath away until he had coaxed her into leaning back almost completely into his chest.

Solas rocked his hips up, then away, in only the slightest motion and she melted completely. Ixchel's head lolled back on to his shoulder and he dropped his lips to her neck. She was completely shrouded in his warmth and scent, supported by his hands and his body, and she was certain of his love.

Solas made love to her with aching gentleness that contrasted so starkly with the playful chase and capture from--minutes? hours? before. He lay silent praise along her shoulders and neck with his lips, and to her legs and abdomen with his wide, warm hands. The long, slow approach to her climax undid the tense muscles in her back and her legs, and his sweet, adoring kisses lulled her into a focused reverie that for once was free of worry.

But not free of mischief.

"I thought the Dread Wolf was about to devour me," she teased under her breath.

That was either the exactly right, or exactly wrong thing to say.

One of Solas's hands snaked up around her front to catch her by the chin with gentle but firm fingers, and he tilted her face to kiss him. But right before their lips could meet, he snapped his hips into her sharply. She gasped, goosebumps erupting across her skin as she found herself immediately on the precipice of her orgasm--but he did not move again until the moment had passed.

"I _have_ been," he told her in a dark whisper. He withdrew nearly to the tip of his cock, and then with a tight grip on her hips he slammed her back down. She bowed her head forward, mouth hanging open as shudders wracked her frame.

"When there is no competition, why would I rush to be done with this treat?" he said in her ear. His fingers were now splayed across her abdomen, at once holding her and torturing her with their proximity to where she needed his attention the most. "I may _never_ be done with you, Ixchel."

"Solas," she whispered harshly. His hand slid only slightly lower, fingertips resting just stop her mound. _"Solas..."_

"Why do you hide?" he whispered--and punctuated his question with another quick thrust. Perhaps he was increasing his pace? "You are so quiet, I wonder if I could take you wherever I wanted to, with no one any the wiser."

She panted seethingly through her teeth--there was no way that he had not felt how her inner walls reacted to _that_ prospect. He leaned into her eagerly, though his husky voice betrayed little of it. "I want to see you come in the light of day, Ixchel." Oh, he was, he _was_ picking up speed. "I want to hear you call for me--"

She lost all her breath in a rush as a first shock rocked her. She stretched away, rigid and reaching, voice lost somewhere between her lungs and her lips, maybe tangled up somewhere with her poor, stuttering heart. But he simply shifted closer, punctuating his deliciously dark and even voice with the rhythmic motion of his hips.

"I _am_ devouring you," he said again, bowing forward to purr in her ear. "Every sound, every sight, every sensation you give me--and it only makes me, impossibly, want you more--"

Ixchel dug her nails into her arm to keep from slipping from the ladder as he began to fuck her in earnest.

A keening sound escaped through her teeth as he pounded into her. The wet sound of their bodies joining filled the small alcove where the ladder was hidden. When her muscles at last began to quake with need, she leaned forward to rest her head against her arms and gave him an oblique look out of the corner of her misty eyes.

He trailed one hand down her back, his own gaze half-lidded as he focused on where their bodies joined. His cheeks were ruddy with exertion, and the flush spread to his smooth chest, where she could see it beneath the loose collar of his shirt. He tilted his head back a little and caught her staring. His lips parted as he drove in to her again and again--

"I want you," she told him. Her eyes nearly closed as he drove into her even more relentlessly. She gave a short toss of her hair, then exhaled sharply again as he impaled her even deeper on his cock. She met his gaze. "Only you, Solas--"

Solas leaned forward and braced his hand against the wall beside her. His head bowed, focused entirely on chasing his own release as she spoke. His body drove her flat against the ladder and the wall beneath it but she arched her spine and pushed back against his cock with her hips at every thrust, skin meeting skin with loud slaps each time--

Ixchel moaned when he hit his crest and spilled within her. He shivered as he rocked into her more slowly and braced himself against her and the ladder. With every pulse of his cock, her own body rejoiced and begged impossibly for more. 

Solas caught her as her foot slipped from the ladder, and she teetered for a moment in his arms before wriggling around to face him. She took him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to her for a kiss that burned with all the relief and joy she truly felt, each made only the more potent because of the regret and caution and fear that it had weathered.

His arms seemed heavy, and his fingers weak in the aftermath of his release, but he gathered her up with hands sliding up from her waist to her ribs, and he lifted her without too much trouble. She wrapped her legs around him and pulled herself up as much as she could to deepen the kiss, though they were both gasping, chests heaving--their teeth bumped and she broke away to chase his hammering pulse along the length of his neck with her lips.

Her back hit the wall and Solas pinned her there with his arms and his body, though from how he responded to her mouth and teeth against his skin she knew she was the one with the upper hand at the moment. Ixchel gentled, and his heart began to settle, and she found her way back up to catch his lips in a kiss that was less urgent but perhaps more full of meaning. For her heart twisted in her chest as words fought to form on her tongue:

"I'm so glad to be alive," she whispered. "I love you, Solas."

Solas made a soft sound she couldn't place as being pained or pleased, but he leaned into her even more and held her tightly. She returned the embrace with as much strength as she still had in her arms and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

His breaths were labored in her ear as he buried his face in her hair. "You have spent so much of your time being afraid... My love... My hope for you is that one day you might feel safe enough to forget that."

She dug her fingers into his shoulder. He nuzzled closer to find her damp skin and kissed her cheek where he could reach it.

"Someday," he said softly again, "but I know today may not be that day."

"I wish I had anything to celebrate about the past," she whispered, "like you do. All I carry are ghosts."

Solas exhaled heavily and stepped slightly away from the wall, letting her legs drop until she stood upon her own two feet. He bent to rest his forehead on hers, eyes closed. "I will share as much as I can with you, then," he promised. "It would be good to focus on that, and not my own ghosts."

He lay a light kiss on her lips, then took a step back, pulling her by the hands back into the main apartment. "So...? Have I convinced you to spend a week locked in with me?" he teased.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "As opposed to trying to fuck me in all the ancient temples I want to show you?"

Solas shrugged demurely and tugged her toward her bed. He sat on the edge and pulled her into his lap, and when she had straddled him he wrapped his arms around her waist and fell back into bed to look up at her. "They are not mutually exclusive," he said thoughtfully. "It is more the order."

Ixchel rolled her eyes and leaned forward to rest her elbows on either side of his head, to support herself as she kissed him more. She was thoroughly drunk off of his lips, but frustratingly she was not tired in the least. "Maybe not the whole week," she said.

"Then I'd best endeavor to make sure you lose track of time," he replied. Before she could catch a glimpse of what was no doubt a wicked and playful smile, he had rolled to the side and reversed their positions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mar rodhe ir’on - you taste delicious


	109. Certainty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I wrote up Ixchel's Trespasser ending/the infamous Eluvian scene and posted it as a separate fic: _The Hope of Fen'Harel_. Check it out, as well as _Ruined Empires and Dust_ if you haven't already, if you want more of Ixchel and Solas's sad and depressing backstory.  
> 2) Hello yes I have managed to download and actually get DAO to run so Warden Halevune Mahariel has begun his adventure :')  
> 3) some headcanoning occurs in this chapter. I'm trying to be very very careful with what I outright state and what I leave vague. Which ironically means I do have to make one claim: Solas doesn't know everything (ha!).
> 
> Thanks for all your comments! Hope you are all doing well. What a fucking week.
> 
> 1/9/21

Ixchel sat under Solas's arm, her head pillowed against his chest while he sketched. He was not quite as technically skilled at conveying the true-to-life architecture as he was at the stylized Elvhen style, but he was giving her an idea of how _Skyhold—his_ Skyhold—had once appeared. It had been a place of judgment, where the most important and consequential determinations might be carried out. This was where her wolves received only her most honored supplicants. This was where Mythal judged the other Evanuris.

"When I claimed my place apart from the Evanuris, I declared it here." His voice had taken on a softer, dreamier cadence as he conjured the image of pilgrims from earth and sky, waking and dreaming, coming to this mountaintop for justice. "And when I finally judged them as beyond hope... When I came to seal them away... I did so here."

"Is that what you see, when you walk this land in the Fade?" she asked quietly.

"Often." He continued to sketch spires and arches. He was careful, unaffected when he asked, "You say you fought a Regret that reflected my own. Was it here?"

“Yes,” Ixchel said.

He glanced at her. “ _Ir abelas, ‘ma’lath.”_

Ixchel sighed. “It was just sad,” she said. “It was your frescoes that it inhabited. All of my deeds…the gift that you had given me… It had all just made you think of all your failures…" She pressed her cheek closer to his bare skin and breathed deeply to settle herself. "Skyhold had sat empty for a year already, just me and the caretaker, and your frescoes..." She shifted a little. "I had to recruit Sutherland again to take it out. He drew it into him briefly… He thought that maybe it might have been Introspection if it had had the chance."

Solas turned his head to rest his lips against her temple. She squeezed one of her arms behind his back and rubbed her hand soothingly between his shoulder blades.

"This place has had a life far beyond me," he said after a long pause. "I would do well to remember it."

He returned to the sketch.

"Your turn, then."

Ixchel sighed and wracked her brain for what she could offer him with words alone. "I found a surface thaig to the west," she said. "A Paragon who regretted the inter-thaig wars fueled by his weaponry fled to the surface and built a massive colony. And in his tomb...was a statue of Mythal."

Solas hummed unhelpfully. "A forest once towered there."

Ixchel closed her eyes and recalled the shape of the runes on the memorials, the way they flowed in the alternating scripts of Fairel’s sons… "It was sand by the time Fairel reached the surface. But in the sand," Ixchel said, "was the Stone."

"The Children of the Stone have confounded me in this age," Solas admitted.

"For those who can't dream, they are awfully imaginative, is that it?"

"I had thought that dwarves were the severed arm of a once mighty hero, lying in a pool of blood. Undirected. Whatever skill of arms it had, gone forever. Although it might twitch to give the appearance of life, it would never dream."

Ixchel pulled away to look up at him with a hard look. He shrugged one shoulder slowly, without trying defend such a harsh view.

She still frowned at him. "The...impressions I found from Elvhenan made it seem like the Evanuris thought sundering the dwarves from the Titans was a kindness. That they were dreamless and soulless slaves."

"The Evanuris certainly weren't aware of irony," he said under his breath.

Ixchel swatted him lightly on the stomach and rolled her eyes before growing serious again. "The dwarves I've met who are connected to a Titan... I mean, I don't know anything about them except that they have powerful weapons, wear armor made of lyrium fused into their bodies...and that an Orzammar Shaper getting reconnected to the Titan will console both it, and her." Ixchel did not look away from his face. "Is that so different from back then? Or was it just a matter of perspective?"

It clearly made him uncomfortable to admit such a possibility—but he admitted it nonetheless. "Yes,” he said, “the perspective we held dictated that bodies are mere vessels for the Spirit. Without the ability to walk the Fade at all, there _could be no_ personhood."

He set down his graphite rod and met Ixchel's gaze with a slightly hesitant look. "For waking-born and bodied Elvhen... The soul could leave, or be removed from the body and leave it behind as a will-less...remnant. Beyond even the Tranquility you know. I do not know what the Children of the Stone’s own truth might have been, then."

"And the Titans themselves?"

"They are necessary for the waking world's continued existence," Solas said. "That, I know."

Ixchel considered this for a moment, then shook her head. "I absolutely don't understand."

Solas's lips were pulled into a smile before he could catch it. He set aside the mostly-completed sketch of _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ on her bedside table and began drawing on the page beneath.

"Magic as you know it today is merely the ability to bring the Fade into the waking world, and manipulate waking reality as one manipulates the dreamed Fade. Just as your mind holds the power to shape the Fade, the Titans' dreams shape the Stone—the very world.”

He tapped his graphite stick on the paper below him to draw Ixchel’s attention to his new drawing. He had put down the now-familiar iconography of two half circles with a river flowing between them; it was the same new addition he had placed between the frescoes of Therinfal and Redcliffe, downstairs in the rotunda. The way he drew them now, they seemed to more clearly represent bowls, passing liquid between them from top to bottom.

“Before the Veil, the waking and dreaming worlds were one. The Fade reflects the material, and indeed they cannot exist without one another, just as an ocean cannot exist without the shore or the ocean floor. But the magic of manipulating the Fade was the magic of imposing one’s will upon the stuff of _dreams._ Using that power to manipulate the unchanging world was…incompatible. Likewise, the Titans’ wills shape the unchanging world, but they cannot impose their will upon the Fade.”

Ixchel stared down at the drawing as she wrapped her mind about the consequences of the Veil, then. What did it mean for Mages, then…?

“It is the blood of the Titans that tunes the will that might shape a dream into the force that might shape the waking _world._ Thus, the discovery of lyrium changed our history forever. With lyrium augmenting the nearly limitless Fade magic of the strongest Elvhen, their wills could be forced upon the material world…”

Ixchel sat up and turned fully to face him, propped up on her arms. "Lyrium is pure magic," she said eagerly. "Stone magic! _Waking_ magic!" She tightened her grip on the sheets. “When we consume lyrium, we can either be the will _of the Titan_ upon the waking world, or replace it with our _own_ will!”

She smacked Solas’s thigh eagerly, and he was grinning at her. "It is not the complete understanding," he did caution. "Such an explanation does not fully answer why dwarves cannot ever work the magic of the Fade, or why Tranquil can handle lyrium without negative repercussions."

She slid forward until she was lying on her stomach beside him, and she tilted her head back to look into his eyes. "Why would the Elvhen want bodies?" she asked. "Why leave the Fade?"

Solas's grin turned into a bit more of a sour smile. "Why do any intelligent creatures seek the unknown, the wilderness?" he posed to her. "Conquest. Stimulation... Pride." He took up a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. "There are many novel facets of the physical existence that an incorporeal creature might find exciting. The ability to grow one's nature is another appealing feature...beyond even such...sensual activities as what we have discovered together."

"Ah yes, sex, power, and greed," Ixchel said with a derisive snort. "I imagine it's much easier to control your slaves when they have bodies that feel pain—”

"—and can be branded with runic lyrium and thus bound mind and soul to your will? Yes." He let her hair slip through his fingers. "It is much easier to remove ink than lyrium, by the way."

"Good to know." She raised an eyebrow at him, then shook her head. "And the Blight...?"

"I fear it," he said immediately. "I do not understand it. I do not know where it comes from. I do not know why it does what it does... I know only that it has and can be weaponized, that it affects every living thing in its proximity, and it creates a connection like that of lyrium to the Titan, and dreams to the Fade... But to what will… I do not know." He shook his head. “The Void itself, perhaps.”

“It’s a different song,” Ixchel agreed.

“Ah. Yes.” Solas’s smile faded completely. “You can hear it.”

“I didn’t always, not before I came back. So…whatever it is…has something to do with whatever was done to me, or wherever I was, or…” Ixchel shrugged.

Solas set aside his implements and slouched down so that he could pull her half onto his chest. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and considered her. When he spoke, it was with resolve—as though he had decided he needed to be brave: “Is that what you want to discuss?”

Ixchel’s heart wrenched, for he had not successfully hid the pain that lay beneath that question. “I think it’s more important that I know if there’s something you want or need to know,” she said slowly. “Because I have no particular desire to bring it up, otherwise.”

Solas’s eyes flashed. “Canny,” he said in a dry tone. “I do not want to dwell on the topic, yet I can’t know if there are things I should know, unless we investigate.” He sighed. “So… Let us begin unraveling your mystery. You believe that Mythal claimed the soul of an Old God.”

“I am certain of it.” She gave him a helpless look. “No, I can’t tell you.”

He nodded, squeezing her shoulder a little. “It is alright, Ixchel… Then, you believe that I came to possess it.”

“It’s more that…I believe I have it, and I can’t think of any _other_ way that could have happened.”

“Hm.” He tilted his head, gray eyes scouring her face. “It is through the Blight that these Archdemons rise. It is through the Blight that the Darkspawn and the Wardens are compelled to seek out these dragons and infect them…”

She could feel his heart beating just a little faster as he broached the topic, and she lay her hand flat against his chest as though she could give it comfort directly.

“The Evanuris who remain are themselves Blighted. Until Corypheus and his ilk unleashed the Blight upon the waking world, they had _no_ way out of their prison in the Fade.” Solas seemed to chew the inside of his cheek, uncomfortable with his own uncertainty. “I cannot confirm that it would even be possible for them to transmit their souls beyond their prisons through the Blight…”

“Let’s not talk about what we don’t know,” she soothed. “That’s a vast and deeply terrifying topic.”

He exhaled sharply in an almost-laugh. “Yes, indeed.” He gathered her closer. “Whatever they are, whatever Mythal captured, if it _is_ within you then it is no longer in a recognizable form. I cannot know entirely unless I look more deeply than our forms will allow, but—it must have been powerful, and it must have been necessary, and all of that power was lost in making you…real again.”

Ixchel bit her lip as well. “Ah, yeah, that part.”

“Yes,” Solas said softly. “That part. You have an arm that you should not have. You are…everything I could ever want, yet more than I could ever deserve…”

“Solas, stop it.” She sat up a little.

“But it is a fact that I _will not know otherwise_ unless I become one with you,” Solas said, a pained expression twisting his face. “I must…accept that I will not know.”

“No. You must _trust,”_ she said, and did not leave any room for argument. “Trust me. I know who I am. I know who I was. I was not _made up.”_

When he was painfully silent, she sat up fully and dragged herself around to sit cross-legged beside him. “Yes, in the act of sending me back, he saddled me with the responsibility of his hopes. But my knowledge, my understanding of you—that was my own. I am as awfully _me_ as I was the day I died.” She twisted her mouth into a bitter slant. “He was cruel in many ways, but I don’t think he was so cruel that he would have left me with the shadows in my mind. Not even for authenticity’s sake. So therefore I must be _me,_ and I have seen you through my own eyes, and I have loved what I see—shaped by _my own_ will. Not his.”

“You’re right,” he said softly. “If I had the power, I would give anything to fight that beast that stalks you.”

“I know.” They held each others’ gaze for a long moment, holding hands, breathing, in the security of their agreed-upon love. But then Solas looked down at their joined hands, his eyes dark and troubled still.

Solas ran his thumb across her knuckles. Before he could speak, Ixchel pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes with a long sigh. “The Dread Wolf has never been what I see when I look at you,” she said finally. “It has always been the beast that _I_ fear stalks _you.”_

Solas nodded slowly. “In the graveyard of our fears… Our markers were broken, leaning upon one another…”

Ixchel held her breath.

“They both spoke to the same fear, Ixchel,” he said. He raised his other hand to her cheek and brushed his thumb along the line of the vallaslin there, broken by scars new and old. “But I am He Who Hunts Alone no longer, and I will not allow the lying shadows in your mind lead you down paths I cannot follow. As long as you will have me, I am yours.“

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel finally braved the outside world in search of their next meal. On her way, she saw Cassandra sitting at Varric’s usual place by the fire in the hall, and the Inquisitor made her way over to check in on the Seeker.

“Writing does not come naturally to me, as I’m certain you can imagine,” Cassandra said dourly as Ixchel approached.

“If you’re trying to write poetry, maybe.” Ixchel sat beside Cassandra. “But your purpose is to document and describe, and for such important matters, I don’t think flowery words would accomplish the task.”

Cassandra nodded and sighed. “It is written as if by a _dim-witted child.”_

“No, it’s written as an earnest and factual _report_ on fantastic and unexplainable things,” Ixchel retorted. “I’ve read it.”

Cassandra set down her short quill and sighed. “Then perhaps you should tell me what to say about the Spirit…or the Divine…”

Ixchel waited patiently.

“I saw her there, heard her voice, yet I cannot claim with certainty it was really her. The Chantry teaches us that the souls of the dead pass through the Fade, so it could have been her…yet even so…” Cassandra shook her head. “I must interpret what I saw, yet I am no priest, no philosopher. I am a warrior.”

“You are an honest woman,” Ixchel said. “You have no agenda here, except to report the truth. You have nothing to trust except your own eyes and your heart. The fact that you are unable to be definitive is, itself, valuable information, Cass.”

The Seeker glanced at her sidelong.

“I don’t know what happens when we die,” her friend said quietly. “All I know is that to bring me back, reality itself had to break.”

Cassandra continued to gaze at her with both scrutiny and concern, and it made Ixchel fidget with the tabletop.

“Cassandra… I… I hope you know that your doubts and worries don’t detract from your authority,” Ixchel said to her lap. “It means you care. It means you are willing to listen. That alone makes you uniquely valuable, and honorable, and your account _should_ be shared for those reasons alone.”

“You said much the same after what we learned at Caer Oswin. I have not forgotten.” Cassandra’s lips thinned. “You have always had faith in me, even when I had little in myself…and I know how difficult it is for me to remind myself of that. Thus I _do_ understand why you would fear your truth coming to light…but…”

The Seeker placed her hand on Ixchel’s shoulder. “You must know how much I believe in you, Ixchel. There will undoubtedly be more times like this—and like Emprise du Lion. But now you have these two examples to look back upon, to arm yourself with, like a trusty shield. The next time you doubt, try to remember that even after these revelations, I trust and believe in you. And in the meantime, we will continue to look out for your blind spots.”

Ixchel clasped Cassandra’s hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you, Cass. I… I know that I might need it, the spotting.”

“Clearly,” Cassandra said in a low voice. “And the stakes are high. But when are they otherwise?”

The two warrior women shared darkly humorous smiles.

Cassandra turned back to her document, smile fading after a moment into a contemplative frown. “A ghost…a remnant of her hopes and memories…her lingering will to do good…? Those things are all possible. A spirit could have assumed her form, but why? It helped you, as Justinia herself would have.”

“I wonder, too,” Ixchel said. “If she were a Spirit—was she Love? Dedication? If it was Justinia…why would she care about me?”

“I…would not dishonor the Divine’s memory. But I do not disagree with your doubt,” Cassandra said. “I do not know.”

“What matters is that you met a creature who raised these questions,” Ixchel offered.

“That is true. It is also true that for the second time in recorded history, mortal creatures stood physically in the Fade.” Cassandra shuddered a little. “When I first realized it—I was terrified. The last time this happened, we created Darkspawn! We created Corypheus…”

“The Fade is a place of intent, of course. We did not enter with malicious plans as they did.”

“Yet the red lyrium… The words of the Nightmare…” Cassandra sighed again. “The problem of _interpreting_ what I saw aside, I still do not have even enough words to begin _describing_ what I experienced…” She looked back up suddenly. “Speaking of words—what did the wolf say to you? It was Dalish.”

Ixchel gave a startled laugh. “Yes. It was an old song… The true meaning has been lost, but the impression remains: _‘Be certain in need, and the path will emerge. Take spirit from the long ago, but do not dwell in lands no longer yours… Endure.’”_

Cassandra wrote all of that down in the margin of her page, then looked upon it in awe. “That is a powerful message,” she said gently. “But what does it mean to you?”

“Well… Towards the end…it was a very important song to me.” Ixchel hesitated. “Amarok was the Spirit of my Regret, Cass. He was telling me… I don’t need him anymore.”

She looked down at her hands rather than see the look Cassandra gave her.

“I can’t keep living in the past—and nothing is the same now, anyway. But we can find a way forward,” Ixchel said.

“May I include that?” Cassandra asked hesitantly.

Ixchel thought for a moment.

_Be certain in need, and the path will emerge._

Ixchel nodded. “I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who needed to hear that.”


	110. A New Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/11/21

Cassandra set down her document and turned to face Ixchel more fully. A shy smile played on her lips. “Ixchel… Might I ask… Did you always love Solas?”

Ixchel fixed her with a wary look. “No,” she said. “He was…a mentor, and a friend, and I was very young.”

Cassandra blushed. “Oh, yes. That’s right.” She drew a sharp breath, eyes widening. “I have often thought you might be too young as it is now. I cannot imagine the burden…”

“Yes.” The Inquisitor bit her lip and decided that telling Cassandra a love story was in fact the better alternative to going down the depressing rabbit hole of how terrible it was to be a teenage Inquisitor. “But once I realized I was back again… I tried to remind myself that none of you were the people I had known. Not yet. And by thinking of you as separate people, I found myself drawn to you, and to Solas, and to Varric, and Dorian all over again.” She tried to smile at Cassandra, whose eyes shone with rapt interest. “Perhaps it was a little unfair. There were some things I could teach Solas by virtue of my prior experience now, that we had discovered together a long time ago.”

“You think that that is what ensnared him?” Cassandra asked, shocked. “History? Discovery?”

Ixchel laughed a little. “Well, he is a scholar after all! It was a lot easier to earn his respect. The rest…” Ixchel shrugged and smiled a little more easily. “He still took some convincing.”

“Really? It has always seemed that you understood one another. That you were…kindred spirits, of some kind. I know less about him than I do about you, of course. But that night in the Emprise…”

“We all are,” Ixchel offered. “Kindred spirits, I mean. Shaped by the same duties, united by the same hopes… I love all of you, so much. And I’m so glad I get to be alive to tell you that.”

“Being Inquisitor has brought you good things,” Cassandra said. “Many good things. But only a few have been by your choice. Take what happiness you can from those, and do not let them go. And those of us who care for you will not let you cast them aside in the moments where you might not see clearly.”

She squeezed Cassandra’s hand. “I am very lucky,” she agreed. They held hands for a moment longer, and then Ixchel laughed a little. “I did promise to return with food, though. I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Cassandra sighed wistfully. “Yes, rest and enjoy yourself while you can, Inquisitor. You deserve it.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel found traces of Sera’s mischief in the kitchens when she arrived and consoled the staff as best she could about their missing lard while scrounging up a meal from the leftovers arrayed about the kitchen. On her way back, she ran into Cole.

He held a small bundle in his hands.

“Come on,” she told him. She carried the overloaded tray of food ahead of him and he made no effort to hold the doors for her, for he was so distracted by what he held in his hands.

Solas was half dressed when they arrived back in her quarters. He was leaning out on the balcony, looking out at the river valley. It was either sunrise or sunset; Ixchel couldn’t tell.

She set the tray of food on the table beside the remains of their last meal, and then she joined Solas and Cole out on the balcony.

“Ah, so Josephine was able to obtain one of the amulets,” Solas observed as Cole held it out to him. “Excellent.”

“I decided,” he told Solas. “But I need… I need you to help me. Remind me.”

“The Templar. Of course.” He put a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “The Inquisitor and I will not let you face this precipice alone.”

Ixchel leaned against the railing. “Leliana can confirm this, but I believe the Templar is now a beggar in Redcliffe.”

“Good. I mean. That is sad.” Cole took a deep breath and hung his head.

Solas squeezed his shoulder. “You have lost a part of yourself, and these feelings are warring to take the place of what was lost,” he said gently. “It will be good to let go of vengeance and resentment. That space within you is made only for compassion. When you are once again be aligned with your purpose...there is no greater joy than such a state.”

Cole nodded. “I just want to be safe, and then everyone else will be safe,” he said. “I want to be whole.”

Ixchel wrapped her arms around him. “We’ll get you whole and happy again.”

He nodded, then tilted his head. “ _You_ don’t feel small anymore,” he said. “You are so bright.”

Ixchel squeezed him, and with her cheek resting on his shoulder she looked up at Solas. His eyes were roaming the scene and the crease in his brow deepened the scar he had left there so long ago. She knew better than to think that he wasn’t remembering every cryptic thing Cole had ever said about her in the light of the new context he had.

She offered him a small smile.

He reached out to push her hair behind her ear. “Your ‘hart’ knows,” he said softly.

Ixchel nodded. “Now he does,” she agreed. She looked back up at Cole. “I’ll have to arrange some things, before we head out into the Hinterlands. I’ll let Leliana and Josephine know as soon as I can.”

“Let us help our friend quickly,” Solas said. “It is the least we can do for Cole.”

-:-:-:-:-

Solas was surprisingly enthusiastic about coming with her down to the Herald’s Rest later that evening after she had coordinated some with Leliana and Josephine. By the time they headed out through the great hall, Cassandra had moved on, but Varric hadn’t resumed his post by the fire. Skyhold still seemed empty, with so many of her forces and support yet to return from the west. Ixchel would have had few qualms about holding Solas’s hand in public regardless, but it was certainly easier when there were fewer eyes to see and lips to gossip about it.

As they descended the stairs to the courtyard, a flash of gold caught Ixchel’s eye. Someone was sparring in the training ring, dressed in armor that was all too familiar to Ixchel—and far out of place for Skyhold. Ixchel led Solas over with a firm pull of his hand, and he made a soft, curious, “Huh,” at the sight.

An elf darted around the training ring, his fast movements augmented by the power of the Fade. The smell of sundered air was strong around the training yard. The golden armor of the Sentinel glinted in the last light of the day as he sparred with one of Leliana’s rogues—the human agent, Argent, Ixchel recognized. The elf was dark-skinned, and his white hair and white vallaslin stood out stark against it and his armor. Ixchel drank in his movements appraisingly, then turned to Solas.

“He’s trained in the ancient ways,” she said under her breath. “Is he one of yours?”

Solas’s eyebrow quirked slightly, but he shook his head.

She looked back to see Argent leap up onto the railing of the training ring. Her partner swept his summoned blade laterally, to take out her ankles, but Argent back-flipped off of the fence. “I yield, Cillian!” she called breathlessly.

Ixchel approached, releasing Solas’s hand so that she could applaud. Cillian and Argent looked up in shock; Argent quickly bowed, and Cillian raised his hand over his heart in the Inquisition’s salute.

“At ease, _arani,”_ Ixchel said to both of them. “That was a sight. Thedas is well-served by talent like yours.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Argent said, still puffing a little for breath. “This is Cillian of Clan Ralaferin.”

“ _En’an’sal’en,_ Cillian,” Ixchel said.

 _“Tuelanen i'na, Rogasha’ghi’lan,”_ he replied. “I am honored to meet you. Neria has told me much about what you are doing for our people and for Thedas.”

Argent gave him a startled look, as though surprised he could speak.

“And I am honored to meet you. It seems the children of Clan Ralaferin have uncovered many secrets,” Ixchel said with a smile. “You have been trained in _Dirth’ena Ena’sal’in.”_

Cillian’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes. I spent many years searching for, then meditating, upon this aspect of our heritage. Once I had mastered all I could learn from the ancient shrines, I returned to the world—and found the Breach open in the sky. I thought to aide you with my skills and my knowledge.”

“I’m glad of it,” Ixchel said earnestly. “From what I just saw, you’ll be a great asset, and a great ambassador for our people.” She saluted the two of them. “Keep up the good work, the both of you.”

“Your Worship,” Argent said with another short bow.

Ixchel returned to Solas’s side on the walk to the tavern. “He studied in a hidden shrine for several years,” she told him. He hummed. “What did you think of his form? It seems he might wish to teach it to others.”

“The Spirits taught him well,” Solas said. “He is a talented Arcane Warrior.” He turned slightly to address her more directly. “Ixchel… My agents do not know who I am. I can point them out to you, but I would not be able to introduce you so amicably.”

Ixchel shrugged. “There is no pressing need, Solas.”

He nodded. “Very well. I do not wish for you to...”

"I mean it," she said. She gave his hand a squeeze, and they entered the Herald’s Rest together. There, they found Bull, Varric, and Thom gathered with a mountain of empty pitchers between them. From the foam that still clung to the sides of some, Ixchel guessed that Amund had finally convinced Cabot to get some Avvar mead.

Bull cheered loudly when Ixchel and Solas approached, and Varric and Thom turned to see who had arrived. A grin spread across Varric’s face, and Thom chuckled behind his beard. There was still some foam clinging to his mustache.

“Well you’re looking well rested,” Varric cooed. “I think this is the longest any of us have ever seen you stay in one place, Sunshine.”

Ixchel rolled her eyes good-naturedly and plopped down on a bench beside Thom. Solas sat across from her, shoulder-to-shoulder with Varric. “Getting stabbed does make you appreciate bed rest,” Ixchel mused.

“That all you been doin’, Boss?” Bull asked.

Ixchel’s face immediately tensed. “Oh, so I’m back to being _bas?”_ she said with a sharp tone. Solas looked at her askance, but Ixchel held the Iron Bull’s gaze intently. He was less taken aback than she would have liked, and she had a feeling that the slip had been purposeful. Her jaw shifted as she clenched her teeth. “What’s the Ben-Hassrath think about my latest walk in the Fade?”

Bull bared his teeth. “Hnnn. Haven’t gotten a response back. They’re probably going to prescribe me some old Qunari exercises to overcome my fears. That Nightmare demon… Fighting a dragon didn’t keep me from forgetting about that.”

Thom cleared his throat. “We’ve put a bit of a moratorium on talk about Adamant for the moment, Inquisitor,” he said. “And probably the Qun, too.” He gave Solas a careful look.

Solas shook his head and accepted a mug of Avvar mead, then passed one along to Ixchel. She raised it. “Alright, before the moratorium—a toast!”

“Here here!”

“Regret is only a mirror,” Ixchel said, “and hindsight is always clear as daylight. But we are big damn heroes, don’t forget it!”

They clinked their mugs, and then Ixchel slouched down so her ankles crossed with Solas’s, and she took a heavy swig of her drink. “All right, so what do we talk about? If not Adamant, the Qun, or what Solas and I get up to in bed.”

Thom laughed. “All right. Greatest knight in history?”

Ixchel grinned at Solas. “Sure, yeah. Let’s educate the apostate scholar.”

“My money's on Lady Honorine Chastain,” Thom rumbled. “No one's ever come close to unhorsing more riders than her.”

“This is jousting?” Bull asked. Ixchel nodded. He huffed a laugh. “I’d like to try jousting with my horns.”

“There’s bull-fighting in Nevarra,” Ixchel pointed out. She turned back to Thom. “Honorine’s victory in the Grand Tourney of Tantervale is legendary.”

“I've seen her joust live, and I have to tell you, up close? She has magnificent ti—” Thom caught Solas’s eyebrows shooting up and swiftly changed course. “—technique.”

Varric guffawed. “I'd have to go with Reeve Asa. Winning _three consecutive_ Grand Tourneys? Who _does_ that?”’

“Winning while barely clinging to your horse may count, but it's not exactly the stuff of legend, is it?” Thom tossed back.

Their dwarf friend chuckled. “That depends entirely on who's writing the legend, Hero.”

They went back and forth about the format of the tourneys, the rules of jousting, and a long line of historic upsets and thrilling matches, for Bull and Solas’s benefit. Thom finally knocked Ixchel on the shoulder with his elbow. “Didn’t realize you were into jousting!”

Ixchel shrugged. “I dreamed that one day I’d enter a tourney and win it and that’d be my ticket out of the gutter.”

“And now look at you,” Bull said, grinning.

“Hey, you know they're holding a grand tourney in Markham soon,” Varric said excitedly. “I think we should all go. Inquisition road trip!”

Thom shook his head. “There's got to be... trouble or something up near Markham.”

“Oh,” Ixchel said. “There is.” She looked at Varric. “Sebastian is trying to annex Kirkwall, did you hear?”

Varric’s face darkened. He sighed and shook his head, then looked down at his drink. “After the Winter Palace… I guess I’m not surprised. He was only ever gonna take your speeches to one extreme or the other…”

“Aveline’s pushing him back,” Ixchel assured him. “I made sure Cullen sent her some forces ahead of time. I can have Leliana include you in the correspondence circulation out of Kirkwall.”

Varric shook his head again. “I should write to her myself… It’s been a while since I checked in on Blondie and Daisy.”

“Shit’s going down in Wycome still, too,” Ixchel said. “There’s been a lot of backlash against elves and mages across the Marches.”

“That’s the risk you run, putting people on leashes,” Bull said thoughtfully. “Especially people who remember what it’s like to live without a leash… The moment it slips from your fingers—boom, they’re off. And you know what people do when their pet takes off running?” He tilted his head. “They lunge. Throw themselves fully after what they think they’re going to lose. ‘Course, that just makes whatever’s gone running feel chased.”

“Then they beat the dog for running away, and they are surprised when it runs again or bites them,” Solas interjected. “Yes, such are mortal hearts.”

Bull gave him a long look, then took a drink. “That’s why you send them to the re-educators. Don’t give them a chance to bite.”

“Moratorium,” Thom said, waving for another pitcher of ale.

“Right. I’d rather talk about my sex life,” Ixchel said. “Varric, you writing this down?”

He mimed scribing, though he did not have his writing implements anywhere nearby. She grinned at him.

“So, do you have any advice for fighting demons, Solas?” Thom asked pointedly. “After seeing one face-to-face in the Fade, maybe you learn something new.”

Solas leaned back, and he nudged Ixchel’s leg with his foot. “Survive the first thirty heartbeats, and you'll have already won,” he said, pulling his drink close to his chest. Bull was paying close attention again, but Solas seemed either not to notice, or was ignoring him.

Thom stared at Solas in shock, then snorted and shook his head. “So I should try not to die? Helpful.”

Solas gave him a good-natured smile. “I mean that demons are rarely intelligent enough to change their tactics,” he said in a droll tone. “If you focus on defending yourself, you will see the full range of their abilities within the first thirty heartbeats. By then, you should be able to find a weakness and exploit it.”

Bull smacked his hand on the table. “Ahh, that _is_ helpful!”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Thom said.

Solas’s lips quirked up at the corner. His eyelashes fluttered as he looked down at his drink. “ _Also_ , try not to die.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel and Solas took the long way back to her quarters; after saying goodnight to Cole upstairs in the tavern, they walked across the battlements and made their way to the gardens. It was silent and empty in the dark, and Ixchel stopped in the middle to look up at the stars. As she did, she noticed something else in the sky above her.

“The trees are blooming?” She hardly believed her eyes. “We haven’t been away _that_ long, right? It's newly autumn!”

Solas looked up at where she was staring and made a soft, surprised sound as well. He drew closer and wrapped her in his arms as they looked up at the buds swaying in the gentle breeze. “It _is_ autumn,” he said. “But the Veil is thin here.”

She twisted a little bit to tilt her head back further and meet his gaze. “So what have you been dreaming of, then?”

Solas’s lips eased into what Ixchel might have even called a shy smile. He turned his head to hide it. “You think I can bring spring to Skyhold?”

“Of course,” she said. “You walk both worlds, and you leave them ever changed in your wake, _‘ma’lath.”_

He chuckled. “What would the Dalish think of the Dread Wolf bringing flowers where he walks?”

Ixchel turned in his arms and raised her hands to his face to guide him back. He struggled to stifle his smile, but she had supposed correctly—he _did_ seem shy at this revelation. She brushed her thumbs across his cheeks and smiled back at him.

“Tell me it means you’re happy,” she said in a whisper.

Solas bowed his head so their noses brushed. She could count the freckles across the bridge of his nose and beneath his eyes. She could see the faint lines that permanently marked his face, remnants of long periods of deep thought and concern. But she could also see the traces of laughter at the corners of his eyes, and the dimple in his cheek where his face had grown accustomed to his smile.

“Despite the secrets,” she said. “Despite the blood… Despite the doubt… Despite the _weight_ of everything…”

“It does not _have_ to be ‘despite,’” Solas replied. He laced his fingers neatly in the small of her back and fixed his eyes on hers. “You walk your paths with open eyes, and you have shown love and care for the world not _‘despite’_ the darkness you see in it but including it. Would you be so surprised to inspire the same in others?”

Ixchel felt her eyes burn despite the widening smile on her face.

“Though the path forward is unknown—to you, and to me… I find myself with more hope for the future than I have felt in a long, long time, Ixchel. So yes,” he whispered against her lips. “I am happy.”

He kissed her deeply, unhurriedly, and Ixchel treasured every breath and every heartbeat that passed while he kissed her; with every moment that passed, she told herself again and again and again: _in elgar sa vir mana / in tu setheneran din emma na_.

Ixchel could not honestly tell if she had been right to place such deep hopes on a success at Adamant. It had nearly broken her when things did not go according to plan; she had been nearly convinced of the hopelessness of their fight, and of her future with Solas, or with any of her friends. Yet now that it had passed—she was finally beginning to feel the many burdens she had carried for so long slip off of her shoulders. For all their talk of the shadows that haunted her mind, Cole was right: she felt so _bright._

After some time to rest, she could truly begin to appreciate what she had accomplished. The truth was out, and there was no equivocating: In her long battle against despair, against her own hopelessness and doubts—she had _won._ Perhaps not forever. But it was _real,_ and Cassandra was right, too. Out of this victory, she could fashion armor for her heart. She had built a foundation upon which she could learn to trust again.

Ixchel was filled with an inexorable and terrifying sense of awe at herself, at Solas, and at the road to come. It tore at her heart and made her ribs ache, yet made her feel like she could fly if she tried. As Solas kissed her there, beneath the flowering trees and starlight, Ixchel wondered if what she truly felt was her own fragile hopes blossoming into tentative _belief_ at last.


	111. Dorian, Defiant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out, of course, not everyone is as happy as they should be!
> 
> 1/13/21

Ixchel was surprised to find Varric waiting outside of her door the next morning. He was leaning against a wall, arms crossed and his chin tucked low; he didn't look up when she approached.

"Sparkler hasn't left the library in two days," he said with a strained smirk aimed down at his feet. "He's got a bit of a short fuse right now. Do you think you could talk to him before he and Grand Enchanter Fiona get in a fistfight?"

"Not Bull?" Ixchel asked, somewhat surprised.

Varric shook his head. "He tried. Nearly got kicked over the railing."

"Oh, so it's _real_ bad, then."

Varric sighed a little. "I've seen lover's quarrels of all kinds. This ain't it. My bet is that it's either about Corypheus or your jaunt in the Fade, or both."

"I'll see to it."

He followed her as she made for the next set of stairs.

"Now that we're not around everyone, how are _you_ doing, Varric?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, me?" He finally raised his eyes to her. "Might be a little rattled by the insane extremes those Wardens were willing to go to. And Sebastian. And Anders." He shrugged, but the movement was slow and ginger, as though he had a weight on his shoulder. "I dunno, Sunshine. You see enough kids blown up or made into blood sacrifices... It gets hard to see why we'd let Celene off. Or Clarel. Or Calpernia. Or Samson."

Ixchel paused with her hand on the door. She bowed her head.

"Yeah," she agreed.

"I'm not saying I'd do anything different," Varric said, "but I sure don't envy you."

Ixchel turned and put her back to the door. She sank down a few inches. "It's only gonna get worse," she prophesied. "I don't know. I want to be an example, but not a judge or jury. But that's what the job description includes, apparently."

"Yeah, you wonder if Andraste’s gig got _easier_ after she died.”

Ixchel gave him a sardonic grin. "Sure it did. It's a lot less pressure to be an icon rather than an actor. Unfortunately I don't think that's an option for me until I'm dead. And _that's_ not an option."

"For what it’s worth, I'm glad of that," Varric assured her. He rubbed the crooked bridge of his broken nose. "But you should know, there's a new girl. Fluffy blonde urchin type, got a bigger mouth than maybe she knows what to do with..."

"Yeah, I know her."

"She's been...a little loud about your style. Seems like forgiveness and optimism aren't her thing."

Ixchel nodded and ran a hand across her face. "Not sure what to do about that. Not sure what I'm supposed to do instead, either." She gave Varric a dark look. "What do the Jennies want to do with Celene anyway? I kill her, another one pops up. I kill Calpernia, and there's one less Magister who's against slavery. I kill Clarel, the warriors and mages in the Wardens'd kill each other."

"The Jennies, you say?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "That makes a whole lot of sense, all of a sudden."

Ixchel blew out her cheeks. "Are there many people listening to Sera?"

"Cabot hasn't _said_ the mood has changed much," Varric said consolingly.

"I'm going to need to hand-feed her a good target," Ixchel sighed. "Actually, Varric..."

He snickered. "Here we go."

"Solas and I have to run to Redcliffe to follow up with something. I might send you and Thom with Sera on a Jenny mission. Thom's got a great sense of humor under that beard, and you can be the mastermind when you need to, and Sera's got skill and balls to do anything." Ixchel nodded slowly, her eyes drifting over Varric's head as she imagined it. "I'd really owe you if you could find a way to get her to see what I'm up against."

Varric shrugged. "Worth a shot. But when are you thinking of heading out, Sunshine? Aren't you gonna let yourself enjoy some peace for a little while?"

Ixchel finally turned and pulled the door open. "Oh, I'm enjoying myself," she said earnestly. "And it'll be a nice little trip with me and Solas..."

Varric chuckled. "Ah, yeah, _just_ the two of you. I see."

Ixchel just smirked and shook her head as she went off in the direction of the library.

-:-:-:-:-

She found it deserted, except for Dorian, Fiona, and two Tranquil mages. Fiona had positioned herself bodily between Dorian's side of the library and where the Tranquil were studying. At the sight of Ixchel coming up the stairs, Fiona nodded, spun on her heel, and herded the Tranquil away.

Ixchel wrinkled her nose immediately when she reached the library level. A strong liquor had been spilled somewhere nearby, and recently. She was fairly certain the air might spontaneously ignite as she breathed it in.

Which was a bit of a concern when dealing with an emotionally volatile fire mage.

She found Dorian in his corner, surrounded by books and three bottles. One was empty. Another was being consumed at that very moment. The third was overturned and sitting in a puddle.

Dorian's usually immaculate coif was unwashed and mussed. It seemed that he had hardly changed since they returned from Adamant; there was still blood and dried Fade mud on his clothes. And she was fairly certain just from the sight of him that he hadn't eaten in a day or two either.

Ixchel felt herself grow simultaneously cold and hot at the scene. Her horror and heartbreak upon seeing her friend reduced to such a state was matched only by her fury and resentment that he would allow himself to sink so low—and her own shame for not having realized his plight sooner.

She stepped over a stack of books and leaned back against a bookshelf in his corner. He looked up at her, squinting through bloodshot eyes, from his seat on the floor.

Ixchel crossed her arms.

"What's this about, Dor?" she asked tersely.

"‘What's this about’?" he repeated, and he seemed numb to her tension, numb to even the sight of her.

“Let’s start with why you haven’t left the library in two days.”

Dorian snorted. "You opened a rift large enough for five people to enter the raw Fade. There’s no telling what effect that will have on the Veil at large! I think that warrants _extensive_ research, don’t you?” He drew a rough breath. “And if you can walk in the Fade, others will attempt to as well. And the last time this happened, Corypheus and his compatriots brought about the Blight! You do realize that feat hasn't been performed in over a thousand years?"

Ixchel couldn't help the grim smirk that twisted on her face as she counted the number of times she herself had walked in the raw Fade. She tried to school it, but he saw her expression and became enraged.

"There are enough idiots in the world who think that if they just use enough blood magic, their problems will vanish." Dorian spat. "We can hardly expect some enterprising upstart to be as lucky as you. Who knows what they might unleash?"

"I know," she said soberly. "But that doesn't warrant...this."

“What?” he demanded. “I am _studying!”_

"No. You’re a strung out 'Vint lying on the floor in my library and screaming at the enchanters who walk by," she said. His jaw clenched, and she doubled down. "If something's been bothering you, you should come to me instead of making a scene, Dorian.”

He seemed to go very pale all of a sudden, and she felt the fumes in the air hum with magical energies. She tensed as he rose quickly to his feet. Too quickly, apparently, for he staggered and had to grab on to the back of his armchair for support. Nevertheless, his bitter fury had not abated. _"Why_ would I have come to you?" he demanded. "Why would I interrupt the one moment of peace you may have ever had in your life? Why would I take that away from you _again?"_

"Because it's not the same!" she retorted. She tightened her grip on her crossed arms as all the hairs on her body seemed to stand on end. "Because I understand!"

"Do you?" he demanded in a shrill voice.

Ixchel kicked at the air in his direction rather than honor that with a response.

"The fabric of reality as I know it may be coming apart at the seams and I found out I may have played a hand in it!" Dorian exclaimed. "Even worse, I may have done it in order to _punish_ a dear friend of mine!"

Ixchel pushed herself from her post and grabbed him by the arm as he swayed, but then she pushed him back into the wall and glared at him. "And if I hadn't killed myself, I wouldn't have condemned my dearest friends to the face the _end of the world!_ There's nothing to be done about the past, especially when it's _not your past,_ Dorian!"

"Oh, it's _you_ who doesn't understand!" he said raggedly. "Time magic catastrophically tears at the Veil, Ixchel! It doesn't matter if it's my own past or not—the consequences remain! The end of the world might still happen purely because of what was done to bring you back!"

Ixchel grabbed him by both shoulders. "I was sent back through the _Breach,_ Dorian! And I’ve _fixed_ the Breach!”

"You don't _know_ that!" he shouted in her face. "It could be permanently weakened beyond anything we understand! Because no one understands this!" Ixchel tightened her grip on him, but he wrenched free. “You shouldn’t exist—none of this should be possible, and it is. Why aren’t you more alarmed?!”

“I _am_ alarmed!” she cried. “I haven’t stopped being alarmed since I fell out of the fucking Breach again! But is this about a violation of the laws of nature, or is this about you and me?” she demanded. “Because if it’s about the Veil, I can find you some scholars! I can find you the resources! You don’t have to solve this problem _alone_ just because you think it was your fault—which it wasn’t, I promise! But if it’s about you and me, then you need to _talk to me!”_

Dorian’s eyes gleamed with fury and outrage. His face was still ashen, and his breaths came sharply through his nose as he stared at her. For a long moment, they gazed at one another in silence.

“If you want me to lean on you, then you gotta be able to lean on me, Dor,” she said at last.

The mage leaned back against the wall and tipped his face up to the ceiling. “I don’t know,” he said in a voice swollen with tears. “I don’t know, ‘Chel.”

“Fair enough,” she said, and she closed the distance between them to wrap her arms around his back. She nearly had to hold her breath to handle the smell of the liquor on him, but she rested her cheek on his chest anyway and held him tight until he returned her embrace.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and sniffled.

“When we fell into the chasm…into the _Fade…_ I thought we were done for. I don't think I can forgive you for that moment."

"Then we're even. How about you come up to my apartment and we can fret over the multiple ways the world could end tomorrow, together, over a meal?” she suggested.

“Can you stop that, please?” he demanded. “You should be far more upset about…everything.”

“I’ve had a lot longer to come to terms with it than you,” she said gently. “And someone’s got to save your sober future self from being seen with your hair like this.”

He gave a very wet snort, but then he did allow her to lead him out of the library.

Solas had, fortunately, gotten dressed by the time Ixchel and Dorian reached her quarters. He was lounging on the chaise, peering up at a book that he held above his head. He nearly dropped it on himself when Ixchel tripped at the top of the stairs. She had been half-supporting Dorian, whose energy had waned dramatically somewhere halfway across the great hall. She was sent sprawling on her face, and Dorian clattered in a mess of metal fixtures and leather on the floor beside her.

“You’ve been gone less than an hour,” Solas marveled. “Did the Iron Bull offer you that Qunari drink?”

“Not me,” Ixchel said, clutching at her nose. She pulled herself out from under Dorian, then helped him up. She gave Solas a look, and he closed his book. Ixchel dragged Dorian over to the sofa and plopped him down, the went to fetch the pitcher of water from her desk and poured him a glass.

“I don’t know if you can find me the tomes I need,” Dorian said as he gave the water a contemplative look. “You have every book there is on alternate interpretations of the Canticle of Transfigurations, but anything on magical theory? Heavens no.”

She gave him a relieved smile and pushed the glass of water in his direction again. _"That's_ the Dorian I know. Criticizing every book in my library,” she said gently.

Solas straightened up and rested his elbows on his knees. “I must agree with Dorian. It does seem like an esoteric subject among the contemporary scholars.”

“Livia and Gereon were the leading experts,” Dorian said, looking down into his glass. His lips twisted beneath his mustache into a grimace, and then he tossed the water back and drank it down in one gulp.

Ixchel refilled it immediately.

“Livia?”

“Felix’s mother.” He exhaled slowly, and though his eyes swam with tears, they did not fall. “She and Alexius met at the Circle… The perfect team. He pushed the boundaries of known magic, and she studied how it affected the Veil… ”

“Ah, your benefactors,” Solas said sagely. “If Alexius’s wife was his match—or his better—they would have indeed made quite a pair.”

Dorian nodded. “It was all about balance, with them… But that presumes knowledge of the act the requires reacting to. Now I know what I have done. And I might be the only one remaining who can anticipate its consequences before it’s too late.”

“You’re not,” Ixchel promised. “You don’t have to saddle this responsibility alone. _Please,_ don’t.”

Dorian’s chest lurched as he stifled a sob. “Can’t I?”

“Not if it looks like this,” she said, gesturing at his current state. He blubbered a little into his water but drank it dutifully and accepted another refill. “And it doesn’t have to be _now,_ Dor. There’s nothing you could learn tonight that would stop the Veil from coming apart tomorrow. That’s now how magic works.”

“That’s what everyone says about experimental magics, until suddenly, that _is_ how magic works.” He groaned a little. “For so long, my desire to pursue this kind of magic was out of spite. Breaking the rules came so easily, and now—now that I’m actually _trying to understand_ this, for the good of the world… It just isn’t clicking.”

“Spite has gotten us all into enough messes,” Solas said. “Ixchel is correct. With methodical study, we can make the assessments you speak of, Dorian, and we can act upon whatever knowledge we gain.”

Ixchel patted Dorian’s head. “Also, Dor—and don’t take this as just nepotism…but Solas knows _a lot_ about the Veil.”

Solas gave her a curious look, but her eyes were on Dorian, who had dropped his gaze to his lap.

“It’s my mess,” he said again. “It’s my job to fix Tevinter. It’s my job to put an end to the corruption…the slavery… And whatever’s going to happen because I brought you back to _life…_ That’s my job, too.”

Solas’s jaw dropped. “Dorian—how you arrived at such a conclusion—! That does not mean you must do it _singlehandedly!_ Your responsibility, yes, is to try to change these things, now that you have recognized your part in them…but you cannot _hope_ to do it alone.”

Ixchel smoothed back Dorian’s hair. “Gently,” she said to the room at large. With her eyes she tried to remind Solas that, until recently, he had been on much the same path. “Now, like I said, I’ve been alarmed about the consequences of what brought me back, since I realized I was brought back.”

She wiggled the fingers on her hand that held the Anchor illustratively.

“We’ll do what we can to lay the foundation of such inquiries now, so that we can focus on them fully after we deal with Corypheus—the most immediate threat to the world. But now is not the time for haphazard experimentation or frantic study or ostracizing all the scholars in our tower.” She smirked a little at Dorian’s beleaguered scoff, and then she squeezed in beside him on the couch and put her arm around his shoulder. “And I think there’s something to be said about our need for control in these situations. I just spent most of this past year clawing at the world to control how Adamant would turn out—’til my fingers bled, really—and look where it got me: a super heroic _meltdown_ the moment things went off course.”

Ixchel squeezed Dorian. “No offense, but this meltdown is _slightly_ less heroic.”

“Hey now,” he whined.

Solas chuckled. “My friends,” he said in, as Ixchel had requested, a more gentle tone, “I believe it is now apparent that we three see ourselves as…agents, in ways that others may not be. We recognize the responsibility we have, given such a position. And yes—we each are agents in separate ways, with somewhat differing goals: Ixchel in exhorting mortals to rise to their better virtues and hold the unjust accountable; you in your magical prowess and willingness to break from tradition; myself in the…depth of experience I have to share, from my travels.”

Dorian quirked an eyebrow down at his lap, and Ixchel nudged him a little.

Solas continued, leaning forward. “Our paths may seem to lead to disparate destinations…but there is no inherent reason they should. As you said yourself, Ixchel. We see. We care. Our duties cannot be set aside…but that does not mean that duty is all we must cling to.”

He reached across and laid a hand on Dorian’s forearm. The Tevinter mage looked up at him with wet eyes, and the expression he wore was one of almost disbelief.

But Solas inclined his head, jaw set, and his lips pulled into a firm, close-mouthed smile. “We can walk these paths together,” he assured Dorian. “Spite and solitude have not served us well in the past. And I would not see a friend walk the _din’an’shiral_ if he had another option.”

Dorian sucked his lower lip between his teeth at the admission, and he blinked rapidly at Solas, then looked away up at the ceiling. His throat bobbed as he swallowed words and tears. And then he nodded.

Ixchel refilled his glass in silence, and then wrapped both her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder.

Solas met her eyes, and she knew that he meant every word he had said.


	112. Touching Base

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little on the shorter side. Coming up on my exam. By Friday next week I'll know my fate...
> 
> 1/15/21

Dorian tried to drunkenly discuss the composition of the Veil with Solas for quite some time, to Solas's great amusement, but eventually his waning energy sagged and the Tevinter mage nodded off on the couch. Ixchel tucked him in with a thick quilt and a better pillow and left the pit her of water nearby for him, then left him in peace. Solas came with her to bring their belongings down in preparation for their journey to Redcliffe.

"Hey," Ixchel said before they entered the great hall.

Solas turned, her armor slung over his shoulder. "Yes, _arasha?"_

The young Inquisitor looked up at him for a long moment in silence. It was difficult to articulate how she felt in that moment. She had put the past to rest in so many ways. She had seen a new day dawn for herself and the people she loved. And there was just so much _more_ : it seemed he had doubled down on his commitment to her, to a more healthy hope for the world, in the wake of her revelation. All her worst fears had come to pass, but the aftermath, perhaps, had left the foundation of their relationship even more fertile.

There was so much she wanted to say, to thank him for.

"I love you," she said helplessly.

With his one free hand, Solas took her chin and lifted it. His silver eyes were full of understanding as he took in the sight of her in turn. "I know," he said, voice weighted with just as much feeling as her own. "I know there is so much you have overcome that I do not yet know of. But I have seen the change, and I am happy for you." He swept his thumb across her chin. "Even so, you should rest more."

She scoffed.

"I know." He chuckled and bent to kiss her once, lingeringly, before he opened the door and let her lead the way into the hall.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel went to the guest suite and found Morrigan tending to Kieran's studies. Kieran looked up before she had even come into view, and he smiled and waved at Ixchel. Morrigan startled almost imperceptibly before turning to see who her guest was.

"Ah, Inquisitor. I hear congratulations are in order." She gestured for Ixchel to join them, and Ixchel entered their suite of apartments. "The red lyrium dragon is no more, then?"

"I saw the fragment of Corypheus's soul fly out of it, so yes," Ixchel said. "Thank goodness."

"Yet you still fell into the raw Fade." Morrigan's brow pinched. "I am glad you survived the ordeal. I know how you anticipated it."

"Solas, Cassandra, and Dorian know my secret now," Ixchel said as she took a seat on the floor between mother and son. She looked at Kieran briefly, then back at Morrigan. "I don't think Solas knows about the company Kieran keeps yet, but he knows about mine."

"Oh?" Kieran said curiously. "Can he see the cracks?"

Ixchel shook her head. "He can't tell unless we're dreaming and he looks closer, but I won't let him yet," she said. Kieran nodded.

Morrigan looked between them.

"That's partly what I wanted to tell you, Morrigan. I didn't mention it earlier, because I wasn't sure..." She bit her lip at the patient, concerned look on Morrigan's face. "In my life, Flemeth took Urthemiel's soul from Kieran. Then, she let you and Kieran be free of her. I don't know what she did with the soul. I don't know what happened to you and the Well... But somehow... I now have the soul in me."

Morrigan's eyebrows shot up. Then, she looked back at Kieran, who nodded as well. "But it's different," he said in his whispy voice. "She's not _like_ me, Mother. In me, it sits beside mine, but hers is part of hers. It's holding all the cracks together."

"That is greatly concerning," Morrigan said. "You say Solas knows?"

"Only that Mythal had the Old God soul and that I think I have it, for some unknown reason." Ixchel shrugged slowly. "He doesn't know why I would suspect it or how Mythal took it. But I was wondering if _you_ know why Flemeth wants it."

Morrigan's gaze dropped to the floor, but she couldn't hide her scowl. "No," she said crossly. "I do not. My mother's motivations were always hidden from me, and after this revelation... I do not pretend to have the slightest clue."

"You're the Inheritor," Kieran offered. "Grandmother taught you to preserve what was thought lost. To inherit it!"

"But she _didn't_ inherit the Old God soul," Ixchel observed.

Kieran shrugged too.

"I wish I could say I've had any luck researching the cults of the Old.Gods, or what power the Old Gods may have held... But..."

Ixchel blinked. "Ah. Actually..." She described the memory she had found in the Fade, where a worshipper of Dumat claimed to have seen him in his dreams clearly enough to recognize him when he emerged, Blighted, to destroy his people. "It sounds like they really were _just_ dragons."

"Well, that is not so much a revelation, but it is good to have it confirmed... And you say the Well taught me to take on the form of a dragon..." Morrigan frowned again. She crossed her legs and leaned on her knees as she thought deeply on the topic. "My mother can turn into a dragon already. Perhaps she needs...an army of dragons, to exact the revenge she seeks?

"She wants revenge, and she wants the Great Dragons back, and she wants the Old God souls," Ixchel said, ticking off her fingers. "That's all I know."

"Great Dragons?" Morrigan repeated.

"One of your sisters outside of Antiva was tasked in preserving and restoring the Great Dragons," Ixchel told her. "It involves Alistair's blood. That's all I know."

Morrigan shook her head, chuckling. "Of course it involves that old fool. Perhaps I might pay him a visit." She glanced at Kieran. "It would be good for you to meet him, my love. He was a good friend of your father's..."

Kieran grinned excitedly, but Morrigan turned back to Ixchel before he could speak. "You say you have it, and Kieran can sense it. That implies it was an ingredient of some kind--a necessary function for you to rise again. _That_ in and of itself is a great hint. I will see what my research yields, Inquisitor."

She looked back at Kieran. "And you say Solas does not know of Kieran's situation? I'd...prefer that we keep it that way."

"I don't think he'd be able to tell in the waking world." She nodded at Kieran. "I don't mean to alarm you--he wouldn't hurt you. But I think it's best if your paths do not cross for now."

Kieran nodded. "As you wish, Inquisitor."

"Compassion and I will be traveling for a few days, but when he returns he'll be around to help much more," Ixchel promised. Then she turned back to Morrigan. "With Corypheus's dragon slain, I worry what happens next. I'd entrust you with what I know of the eluvians that remain, but... Please promise me you won't go there without me."

"To the Well?" Morrigan blanched. "Now that I know my mother would peer out of it and into me... You may need to convince me to go with you, rather."

"Good," Ixchel said gravely.

She told Morrigan and Kieran about the Arbor Wilds, and the Temple of Mythal hidden there. She spoke of the Ancient Sentinels, and Corypheus's attack, and Samson's slaughter of the Temple's attendants. And she spoke of the Well and the massive eluvian.

"Calpernia has abandoned him," Ixchel said, "and I believe Samson may have as well. But I wouldn't put it past Corypheus to attempt to claim the Well for himself--particularly after the loss of his dragon. But I'm also concerned about what he might do to make up for the missing dragon.

Morrigan nodded. "Yes, it is just as likely that he would seek a powerful ally to make up for what he lost, before making an attempt upon the Well."

"Right," Ixchel agreed.

"How likely would it be for him to seek another dragon?" Morrigan mused.

"Who knows how long it took him to corrupt that dragon?" Ixchel responded. "He had to have Blighted it and fed it red lyrium, and whatever the order--those are two very big tasks to take on."

Morrigan tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. "We know that he has made allies of powerful demons three times now. Perhaps he would have better odds calling a demon into a powerful body for possession?"

Ixchel stared at her. "I think you might be on to something," she said, though she hated it. "Especially if someone's already done it for him."

"..."

Morrigan and Kieran tilted their heads simultaneously at her, but Ixchel shook her head. "I need to investigate... You already have a broad topic to study yourself, Morrigan."

The witch sighed a little. "That I do, Inquisitor."

Ixchel nodded slowly, then was slow to rise. "Any more insights for me, my friend?"

He sat up a little in his chair and squinted at her. "The cracks are there, but they're harder to see," he said. "You're brighter. You're still many parts, but they fit together better."

"What in the world...?" Morrigan stared at the two of them. "Kieran, we must work on deciphering what these things mean, if you are going to offer them as insights. Unless you understand, Ixchel."

"Unfortunately, I don't. But that's alright." Ixchel gave Kieran a smile and bowed. "I still appreciate it. Thank you."

"Of course, Inquisitor!" he said jubilantly.

"I'll be back in a few days, but feel free to pursue things at your own pace, Morrigan," Ixchel said.

"Perhaps we shall pay a visit to the King of Ferelden." Morrigan chuckled. "I'm sure he'd love that."

Ixchel got the feeling that Alistair very much would _not_ like whatever entrance Morrigan was planning, but she didn't stick around to hear the scheme.

Instead she went to speak with Josephine again and set things in motion before she left. She planned to be in the Hinterlands only for five days at most, but as she often felt when she was about to leave Skyhold--there were just so many things to plan for in her absence.

She was going to have Josephine track down Dorian's old compatriots--Livia's former apprentices, who had also specialized in studying the Veil. Josephine and Leliana were still coordinating the unfolding events in Wycome, while Cullen and Josephine handled the rapidly developing situation in Kirkwall. Leliana and Varric would work together to identify a suitable job for Sera and the Jennies.

Thom and Cassandra would analyze the state of the Wardens now that their mages and warriors had been divided, and start coming up with ways to help Stroud integrate them into the Inquisition when they arrived. Ixchel was going to ask Dorian, Fiona, Dagna to investigate Cassandra's equipment that had become Fade-touched after their journey into the realm of the Nightmare; Dagna seemed to think they could interest Maddox with a neutral topic of study such as this.

Then, of course, there was some news coming out of the Frostback Basin, and from Orzammar. Nothing to act upon, but if Ixchel could move some resources around before they were needed, she'd save herself a lot of headaches later... And after her conversation with Morrigan, she wasn't so sure " _later_ " would be very long at all, really.

"Ixchel, you will never be done with the work that requires your attention until you _decide_ you are done," Solas said as he entered the war room.

She was seated on the ground in a corner with papers strewn out all around her. If she were being honest, she had gotten a little lost in all the connecting threads of her correspondence and had been forced to lay it all out in groups on the ground to keep track of the messages she was sending, the resources she had and hadn't allocated, and who she needed to put in contact with whom...

Ixchel sighed. He was right, of course. "I'll be done," she promised, and began tidying up. He crouched down to help her roll up several scrolls and tie them securely or set them aside for later sorting.

While she finished sorting, Solas straightened back up and went to the war table to look over their troop movements, their strongholds, and their resources. He exhaled slowly as he took it all in. "You have grown quite the Inquisiton," he mused.

"We," she said absently. "And it's still not much compared to what it once was."

Her hands slowed as her mind strayed back to a dark train of thought: she had given that all away and hobbled herself for the fight against the end of the world. How stupid had she been to disband the Inquisition even after she had learned of Solas's plans...?

No. She had been backed in to a corner by Orlais and Ferelden. But more than that, she had been angry and upset and tired. She hadn't wanted to be Thedas' hope anymore. It wasn't her fault that she was still expected to save the world without any of the resources...

Ixchel stood and brought her documents over to the table. She slid her arm beneath Solas's and around his back and sighed. "You check on Dorian?"

"Still sleeping on your couch," he said.

She snorted. "It's--" she craned her neck to look over her shoulder at the dark windows "--it's late!"

"Don't underestimate how much energy it takes to grapple with such existential questions," Solas teased as they made their way to the door. "Or how much inner fortitude it requires to survive...whatever it is he drank."

Ixchel shook her head. "I'll bring him down," she said. "Do you have more to do, _da'fen?"_

"No. I accomplished all I set out to do today and then some," he replied. "I completed another panel in the rotunda."

"Oh? That's wonderful."

He squeezed her shoulder. "I... It still surprises me to know that such a gift was received so well," he said quietly.

She stopped walking and gave him a thoughtful look. He gazed down at her in turn through half-lidded eyes.

Ixchel raised the hand that held the Anchor to his chest and covered his heart. Then, she pushed him slightly.

He let her guide him until his back was against the door to the war room. She held him there with her arm extended, and just her fingertips against his chest to keep him still, and she considered the wolf jawbone that hung there.

"You are a talented artist, and that alone is a gift--to see your skill on display," she said. "Growing up surrounded by ruined portrayals of my ancestors and pale attempts to mimic the tradition...of _course_ I could appreciate the value of the gift. But to see my own actions through your lens... It's a window into your heart that, if things had gone differently, might have been my only connection... And even though we are closer now... I find I only treasure it more."

She let her palm lie flat over his heart again. "Do you remember what I said to you, in the Fade, Solas?"

"Every word," he replied solemnly.

"Good," she said. "I meant them."

She stood on her tip toes to kiss him, and even though he had to have expected it, even though they had come so far since their first acknowledgement of what lay between them, a startled breath still escaped him.

Ixchel pressed him back into the door so she could kiss him more securely, impress upon him how deeply she meant what she had said to him. His heart under her hand raced as he let her kiss him.

When she pulled away, he was slow to open his eyes.

"You're beautiful, and you create beauty," she reminded him. "In all the worlds you tread."

"So do you," he murmured. "I do my best to capture it. In paint, and in life."

"Sweet talker," she accused fondly. "Let's go to bed."


	113. Enter the Path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *stares at the stats in disbelief*
> 
> I made a tumblr (again): @dreadfutures
> 
> Reblogging alllll the pretty arts and posting some of my own...when I have time to draw again.
> 
> 1/17/21

“Again, Champion?”

Ixchel nodded, and Solas swung his staff down toward her. She tried not to raise her head, or her arms, but focused on the will to block the blow. It was hard to access that crystalline moment of focus when a weapon was coming straight toward her face; she had so little time to extend her mind beyond her body, let alone force the fabric of reality into the shape she desired it with such precision. But the air between her head and the piece of wood coming toward her shimmered and hardened, and the arc of his attack slowed—but did not stop. Solas caught himself a moment before hitting her head.

“Nearly there,” he said with a pleased smile. She sighed and nodded. “You are becoming quite adept at this.”

“ _Harellan_ ,” she replied with a scowl.

He twirled his staff. “I mean it. You have only recently gained access to this magical potential, yet you have a firm control over it and your emotions. That alone is a feat that young mages take years to master. More than that, you can dream lucidly in the Fade, and shape it to your will. Such skill is _more_ than rare in this age… And on top of all of that—it is no small feat to slow a blow as it comes toward you, Ixchel. A _localized_ planar manifestation of force and will?” Solas chuckled. “That is fine control. It merely lacks sticking power, and I’m certain you will come to that sooner rather than later.”

“In the Fade,” she asserted.

“When we are on the road, we will see how it translates,” he promised. “You may be the first of your kind, my love. You need not be an expert right away; you are _already_ a prodigy.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what you think,” she grumbled. “Again.”

“Very well.”

Practicing like that all night long had its drawbacks. Though her mind was in the Fade, she had not _rested,_ and she was light-headed and absent-minded in the waking world as a consequence. She could only nod in agreement when Solas suggested they do shorter bouts of training and that she learn to let herself dream restfully when they weren’t working. Such a feat was also easier said than done, after becoming so accustomed to spending her dreaming hours consciously with her lover in the Fade, _releasing_ that control to her subconscious was more difficult than it once had been.

“All things in due time,” Solas soothed as they saddled their mounts.

She focused on the task at hand, for that was all she could handle. Once their mounts were ready, Ixchel, Solas, and Cole set out for Redcliffe. Ixchel rode her war horse, Isenam, who had grown a thick winter coat since she last saw him. The shaggy beast plod through the snow outside Skyhold unperturbed, though Ixchel felt the cold keenly after the springtime weather inside her fortress’s walls. She was grateful for her Avvar-style hood; the interior of it was lined with wolverine fur, which was warm and did not collect moisture very much as she breatheed and sniffled, and the outer ruff was made of long, thick wolf fur. The high winds that whipped down from the mountaintop did not pierce it, at least. She dearly wanted to ride south and meet Thane Sun-Hair, if only to establish a trade relationship and obtain better winter garments. For the rest of her.

Cole rode behind Ixchel in the saddle with his arms around her middle, but his hands were busy: he was making a flower chain out of early buds he had found in the gardens. It wasn't long before her saddlehorn was decorated with a delicate loop of flowers. He was less perturbed by the cold, but he could offer her little warmth of his own.

Solas was dressed in his armor and had layered up with robes both old and new, and pulled close across his shoulders was the wolf pelt Ixchel had given him a while ago, but even so the cold seemed to cut through every layer. He tucked his hands under his armpits and huddled down over his horse’s neck and let it follow Ixchel as she led the way.

Travel through the mountains was quiet. Besides the occasional call from a lonely predator above them, and the whipping winds, and the distant sound of cracking ice, there was no sign or sound of life on the path she had chosen.

As their first day on the road drew to a close, Ixchel found the spot where they had camped with Hawke and Varric on the way to Crestwood—so long ago now, it seemed—and set up a shelter there for the night. Solas sparked the fire for them and then retreated to lay out the wards around the campsite while Ixchel readied their meals and belongings. Their horses huddled close, acting both as wind-breaks and as space heaters, with Cole sitting close to them for comfort too.

When Solas returned, he retreated swiftly to Ixchel’s side and came to huddle under a thick cover with her. She sniffled and smirched a bit as he slipped his cold hands beneath her jacket to find her heated skin. “Shouldn’t you be a little more…adapted to the cold?” she teased.

He dug his fingers into the soft skin of her sides and she shrieked, tickled. “If you hadn’t noticed, I have _far_ less fur than I once did,” he muttered and buried his face in her ruff. She pulled the cover tighter around them and leaned her cheek onto his head. “Let us go somewhere the Veil is thinner… I much prefer the spring.”

Ixchel laughed at that. “What do you think of that? Just traveling around to places the Veil is thin… Seeking out more ruins to explore… Wandering with me, my love, to learn and preserve and bring the past to light…?”

Solas nuzzled closer. “Once the world remembers it is not meant to fall apart, perhaps,” he said into her shoulder.

Her laughter faded, but her smile did not. She could see the seam of the Breach from where they camped, and she stared at it contemplatively. “Eventually, it will,” she mused. “It must.”

Later, as they cuddled close together to stay warm as they slept, Ixchel whispered, “I think it's time I show you something."

Solas’s eyes gleamed in the darkness beneath their blankets. “Alright,” he replied, so softly that his voice was merely a breath.

She buried her face in his chest and breathed deeply, and soon she was asleep.

Ixchel shaped the Fade around her as she waited for Solas. It was just easier to bring a memory to life if she had the surroundings to play off of; otherwise, remembering every detail as it occurred took more concentration than she could maintain.

The winds howled as they had that night. The snow was thick and smooth, seemingly untouched by mortal feet.

Solas joined her, and she shrouded the both of them in the thickest Avvar furs she could dream of. He stood with his arms behind his back and watched the scene dutifully, as though he knew how hard she had to concentrate on maintaining a disembodied narrative like this.

In the distance, a small figure trudged through the snow. They watched her draw closer and Ixchel saw that the Spirits remembered her as being crusted with ice, lips blue with cold and eyes frozen shut with tears. Her hands were wedged beneath her armor to protect them from the wind, but abruptly she removed them and held them to her lips. Though she remained at a distance, her voice was carried on the wind as she begged Dorian to listen and spoke the command to activate the talking crystal.

Of course, it had remained silent, and she had screamed hopelessly into the wind before she lurched ominously. She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

And even though they were looking-on, Ixchel could feel that same cold in her now. She might never forget it; it rivaled the frigid vortex that followed Hakkon Wintersbreath, and she had often found herself dreaming of _that_ frozen nightmare.

Ixchel felt the visceral nausea of realizing that her skin felt dead and hard, like a corpse’s. She remembered the overwhelming self-loathing of accepting her fate as deserved and overdue, for that’s what she had been for so long already: a walking corpse.

Solas drew in a sharp breath beside her, and she knew he felt the shape of her thoughts, too.

Good.

And then the Spirits showed her what came next. One moment, Ixchel knelt, screaming and sobbing into her hands. The next, a gust of wind blew a slurry of snow across her back—and in its wake, stepped _Asha’bellanar._

The Witch stood and watched in silence for longer than Ixchel perhaps had realized. Ixchel, the Dreamer, walked around the scene to get a better look. She was surprised to find that Flemeth looked upon her sadly. She had expected the Witch to tilt her head and give her the disapproving, challenging look that she had so often given Morrigan. Instead, Flemeth’s head bowed forward ever-so-slightly, and her golden eyes were creased with age that so rarely made itself known on her face. The lines of her mouth dug deep and downward as she gazed upon Ixchel.

But when her lips moved, her voice held no trace of the sorrow in her eyes. Her words were a decree, a claim, a challenge, and they were projected directly into Ixchel’s ear on the wind:

"That is _not_ what you are," said Flemeth, said Mythal. "That is not what you are, child of Elvhenan, child of mine. That is not what you are, and that is not what you will be!"

The frozen Inquisitor looked up and found the golden eyes of _Asha’bellanar_ looming ahead in the darkness.

"Rise, Champion," she called to Ixchel. "You will not abandon your People yet."

Ixchel stared at her with a desperate, hopeless look that clearly begged for mercy.

But Mythal did not give it. Now her expression had hardened. Now she raised her chin and cut her eyes and commanded Ixchel: “Rise. _Mala suledin nadas!”_

And even as Ixchel’s eyes welled with hot, angry tears, she struggled to stand as she had been commanded. She groaned in pain as she forced her knees to bend, then straighten, to raise herself out of the snow.

And as Ixchel struggled, Flemeth watched, untouched by the cold, and she raised her chin in triumph. She turned just before Ixchel could raise her head, and a proud smirk twisted her wine-red lips.

Before Flemeth vanished back into snow and wind, Ixchel’s shaky, broken voice picked up:

_“Lath sulevin,_  
_lath araval ena_  
_arla ven tu vir mahvir._  
_Melana ‘nehn_  
_enasal ir sa lethalin.”_

And in the gust of wind that carried Flemeth away, Ixchel heard wolves begin to howl.

Another wild flurry of snow rushed across the dreamscape, and the Spirits who had reenacted the scene vanished, freed from their requested task. Ixchel shivered and hugged herself and looked up at Solas.

He tucked her under his arm reflexively.

“Amarok knew that song. He spoke that verse to me, before we left him to the Nightmare,” she told him. “Amarok came to me in a dream of Din’an Hanin, before we ever went there, and he told me I had named myself and that I had been named, under a statue of Mythal. And a tree grew where I had stood. And after I saved Talim from that Revenant…”

“A tree grew,” he said quietly. “That was where we found you.”

The wind had ceased, and silence fell all around them. The air was crisp and cold.

Solas was warm.

“I still do not believe you are under a geas,” he said. He rubbed his hand up and down her arm thoughtfully. “Amarok was intensely shaped by your Regrets. He _was_ connected to you, in a way. Perhaps he knew it was your will and desire to protect that Dalish clan, and he compelled you to act. Such a bond might even bypass the herbs that disconnected you from the Fade.”

Ixchel nodded slowly. “If Spirits can break Tranquility, then that would make sense,” she supposed. She chewed her lip for a moment, then looked down at her feet, simultaneously leaning closer into Solas’s side. “That entire clan was going to get massacred by Red Templars at Din’an Hanin.”

“You were remarkably insistent when you spoke to them. I understand why. It was your Regret, then, that guided you.”

“You’re relieved,” she guessed. _Me too_. If the strange trance she had been in was due to Amarok’s connection to her, and not Mythal’s, then Kieran and Morrigan were still—probably—safe.

“How could I not be?” he asked with a soft, rhetorical laugh. “I am relieved that you are not under Mythal’s geas. I would not know what to do to free you… You do not wear her vallaslin…”

“And I did not drink of the Well of Sorrows.” Ixchel pulled away slightly and narrowed her eyes at the scene, thinking that she might show him that fateful moment. But before the snow could melt away into golden tiles, Solas stopped her. He turned her bodily to face him, incredulous.

“You know of _Vir’abelasan,”_ he said.

“A friend of mine took it on save it from Corypheus, and she became an occasional slave to Mythal. But it also helped us defeat the red lyrium dragon.”

His silver eyes searched hers from beneath the shadow of his hood, and for a moment it seemed he might tip forward and fall right into her. She tensed, but he never moved. _“Ixchel,”_ he breathed, “the Well contains not only the wills of Mythal’s priests, but their Spirits, bound to her will. Instead of entering _uthenera,_ her priests would voluntarily enter eternal service to her.”

Solas stared at her. She realized suddenly it was probably very good that she didn’t show him Morrigan drinking from the Well of Sorrows, because she still did not want to draw his intense attention to Kieran. It was difficult enough for her to withstand it when it was directed fully upon her as it was now.

She wrapped her hands around Solas’s forearms and held on to him.

“So Corypheus must think that the Well _contains the will of Mythal_. If Erasthenes thinks it’s a power like Urthemiel’s, then that must mean he thinks it’s Mythal herself,” Ixchel said. “I… Solas, I had wondered if Calpernia was meant to be the Vessel for the Well…or for whatever power Corypheus thinks he’ll find in the Black City.”

Solas shook his head. “There is no great power in the Black City,” he said firmly. “There is only the Blight.”

Ixchel shivered. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Solas said bitterly. His nostrils flared as he accepted this revelation himself. “Corypheus wields the power of the Blight as a potent weapon…and it is the secret to his effective immortality, as you have revealed to me. It is only through the Blight that he learned of it. It is the Blight he stole from the Black City, and in doing so, he allowed the Evanuris a way to cross the Veil. But not in their entirety. No. For that…they would require the Veil to be torn open.”

 _Why did he save me?_ Ixchel found herself thinking suddenly, as she clung to Solas’s arms and looked up at the _fear_ on his face. _Why did he turn his back on his success and save me? He knew the Evanuris would be free. He knew their connection to the Blight, by then. He must have. So what went wrong that saving me was the only option?_

Ixchel rubbed her thumbs along the tense lines of Solas’s forearms. “He will not succeed,” she promised.

But his breaths came sharp through his nose as his passion mounted. She could feel the Fade flex and flux around him with his ire. “Dorian is right,” he said, biting the words out as though part of him wished that if he did not speak them, they would not be true. “The Veil has been irreparably damaged, Ixchel. If not Corypheus, then time will undo my work.”

“Then we will plan for that inevitability, and the consequences,” she said. “But first, Corypheus.” Ixchel reached up to cup his sharp face in her calloused palms. “And Mythal.”

A short breath escaped him. “What about her?” he asked, perhaps more sharply than Ixchel had anticipated.

“How did she know to find me in the snow?”

His eyes creased at the corners as he frowned. It seemed he had not considered that question before.

“Perhaps she simply looked,” he said at last. “You have been told how _bright_ you are, _arasha._ The mark in your hand burns like the watchman’s fire, visible from even distant corners of the Fade. It is how I found you, when you were in Val Royeaux and I was…far.”

“Oh, I _don’t_ like that,” she muttered.

“It is good, then, that you do not often walk the Fade alone,” he agreed. “We must be diligent in maintaining your defenses, even without the Nightmare’s threat.”

Ixchel met his gaze again and nodded, but she couldn’t help how her mind strayed to this strange wariness he had toward Mythal. She knew how he had spoken of how she did not remove the vallaslin from her people, even though she did not use them as a geas. She knew how he had disagreed with her, and she knew how he had thought of her as the best of the Evanuris—the one whose murder was the final straw that triggered his plan to erect the Veil. Yet even so, the fact that he did not mitigate her suspicions and even held some of his own surprised her.

She would think on that later. For now, she knew well enough that, however benevolent her ulterior motives might be, Mythal could still be a dangerous influence in her life.

Ixchel pulled his face down so she could rest her forehead against his. “Let’s dream of something better,” she said, extending an olive branch. “Corypheus gone, the Veil’s slow demise years, if not centuries away, and you, and me, walking this world…preparing it for it what could be.”

He breathed deeply with her as the snows faded into distant birdsong.

“What could be, _‘ma’av’in?”_ she asked him. “What is your dream?”


	114. Subjected to His Will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please listen to "Tokyo Rain" by Marcus Warner on repeat for the dream sequence. :)
> 
> And please wish me luck on my exam today (1/19 at 2pm pst). It's time to prove to my committee whether I'm worth finishing my PhD q_q

Solas’s nose traced along Ixchel’s cheek as she tilted her head to listen.

Children’s laughter filled the air, with plentiful birdsong. Those were the first things Ixchel noticed about Solas’s dream. And upon hearing it, she realized how infrequently she heard songbirds even in the most untouched wilderness; she realized how rare it was to hear a child _so carefree._

Immediately, she knew this was a world where it was not merely a mother’s protection that sheltered these children from the horrors of the world, but rather that the _world_ sheltered them.

When she looked up past Solas, she found that they were in a park. Around them rose structures of varied shapes and heights, but each equally clean and beautiful. The sky above them was bright and clear, not polluted by forges like Kiirkwall or Denerim. And it was full of creatures and Spirits on the move. The park was lush and sprawling, and families and couples and friends enjoyed themselves across the expanse of it.

Ixchel took Solas by the hand, and he threaded their fingers together, and they set off to explore this dreamscape.

Magic was practiced openly in this place, much like it was in Tevinter. But where the Magisters might bind Spirits to do their bidding and enchantments were disposed of like refuse in the street, it seemed that every task was performed willingly and nothing was put to waste. So much of life’s unnecessary troubles were eased not on the backs of slaves, but in harmony with any soul—mortal or Spirit—who wished to help. Voices all around placed requests and answered them freely; spent items were traded or recycled everywhere. Every living space incorporated something living in it, whether that was plants or animals living in harmony with the architecture and residents.

They spent an age walking through this wondrous city. A Circle Tower rose up near its center, but it was part of an entire complex of learning that was as large as a palace, or the Grand Convent. There were no portcullises or fences in its walls, but rather free archways that led into large open courtyards. In these yards, children practiced their magic with gentle guidance and loving acceptance rather than fear and stringent expectations. Older students came to study or teach or contribute, then left without hindrance. A hospital was incorporated into one side of the university complex where intermediate students of the healing arts apprenticed with more experienced mages.

No one refused treatment on the basis of their fear of magic.

And as Ixchel felt this world begin to fade with her waking, she and Solas turned to find themselves mirrored in that beautiful place. They were not together, but they were as ever the pair. In what she would later only recall as impressions, Ixchel dreamed that she taught her people to face any challenge to their physical or emotional safety—with body and mind aligned to discern and protect the values of their society. She counseled others into helping themselves and one another with the highs and lows of mortal life and mortal hearts. Ixchel dreamed that Solas taught new generations to remain ever-curious, to learn and distill information in any medium from art to political advising.

Nowhere did anyone raise prayers to gods, familiar or otherwise. But everywhere there was laughter and song, and everywhere there was kindness.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel opened her eyes and found that she had wept in her sleep.

A careful glance upward revealed that she was not the only one.

She carefully slipped out of Solas’s arms and out from beneath their warm cocoon so that she could begin preparations for the day’s journey. Cole caught her once she had taken a step away from her bedroll, and he cupped her face in his hands and smiled. He did not need to say anything.

Cole helped her ready the horses, but he did not warn her when Solas woke. She had her back turned when her lover’s lean arms came around her shoulders; she nearly jumped out of her skin from the fright—and nearly took out his nose with the back of her head. He dodged expertly before tightening his grip and burying his face in the side of her face, lips finding her temple around the ruff of her hood.

She reached up to curl her fingers around his arms, beneath her chin, and leaned back into him. It did not occur to her to apologize for startling so, for nearly hitting him. All she thought of was the vision he had shown her in the Fade.

Ixchel closed her eyes and swayed with Solas peacefully in the still morning.

“In whatever language, in whatever world…you are my heart,” he said, and his voice was tight, as though the words had swelled in his chest and strained to be heard. She could feel his heart beat against her back, hear the emotion in his every breath, and she understood. What else had he shown her, except a vision that spoke directly to her heart? And yet it was his vision, his dream, and he was her heart. How often had her soul called to him by that name? When would it hurt less to hear it, speak it? Because what else was he, but v _henan, vhenan, vhenan?_

She did not know when, if ever, she might be able to call him that or be called that herself. But she knew he understood.

“And you are mine,” she said earnestly.

Cole sat with Solas that day, but his eyes roamed the mountainside and the sky; he clearly delighted in the creatures he spotted. They ate rations in the saddle and rode close, side-by-side. All the while, Ixchel and Solas continued to trade stories. They were slow in their tellings, but there was nothing urgent to spur them and no impatience in the listener.

Ixchel told him of her true experience with Envy, which led into a patchwork explanation of her adventure through Vir Dirthara and the Deep Roads. She told him of the memories she had found in the library—not just the memory of the flower that they both now remembered so dearly, but others, too. They did not speak of her outburst after Therinfal Redoubt, did not address their first kiss there in the Fade. Ixchel knew Solas well enough to _know_ that he must be reflecting upon those moments in light of these new revelations. And she trusted him enough that she did not press or prod or otherwise demand to hear the result of his analysis.

In turn, Solas told her of great Spirits he had known: Glory, Valor, and Wisdom had been his companions in the service of Mythal, but they had all fallen prey to the Evanuris in one way or another. Fragments of them had remained, or been echoed through time. The Wisdom Ixchel had helped save was not the Wisdom who had been his partner, whose jawbone he wore around his neck, but she had been born of the fragments of that Wisdom and as such was older than many Spirits in the Fade today.

Ixchel did not vocalize her painful realization that, when she had failed to save Wisdom, Solas’s grief must have then been layered over the remembered grief of the Wisdom from which this younger one had sprung. Instead of voicing this revelation aloud, Ixchel simply reached out with one hand for him, and he had taken it between their horses, and she gave him a silent squeeze before releasing him again. He had to know where her sharp mind had wandered, and how she could not help but feel for him, and the man who he had once been, and the man that he would hopefully never be, all the same.

Cole was the only one to ask questions. He was in awe of these great Spirits Solas spoke of. He asked about the Librarians in Vir Dirthara. He asked how the “old places” knew to fly. Sometimes he stumbled across questions that neither of them felt ready to answer: he asked Solas if he had known Imshael and the others, and Solas demurred that it seemed even Spirits who had survived the ages had been changed very much from any he might have known. Cole asked Ixchel about the song from the Hall of Uthenera, and she had gotten lost in reverie as she tried to come up with an answer.

“That’s alright,” he said amiably. “You’ll remember eventually.”

She and Solas glanced at each other but did not investigate.

That night by the fire, Solas raised his eyes to Ixchel. “I had thought Morrigan seemed familiar.”

It took her a moment to follow. “A physical resemblance?”

“That as well,” he said with a cheeky smirk.

“To Sylaise and Andruil, or the All-Mother?” Ixchel asked, and Solas shrugged ambiguously. “I don’t know how I feel about that,” Ixchel said slowly. She had not forgotten the story of Fen’Harel and the Tree, after all, or of Wisdom and the jawbone…

Solas’s smile turned slightly more wry. He dropped his gaze back to the fire. _“’Ma serannas,”_ he said, for he knew her hesitation was for his sake. But it seemed that he was thinking of his past, and this troubled family he had lost, and he seemed to decide that the pain of remembering was worth the retelling.

“Falon’Din, Dirthamen, and I were born at the same time,” he began in a lower voice. “A mother’s Pride is a powerful thing. Perhaps it always irked Andruil that she did not inspire such a sentiment in Mythal herself. And perhaps Andruil could not see that she was the sentiment.”

Ixchel couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her. “Yes, that does sound like a familiar relationship dynamic…” Her laughing smile faded. “So that must mean you knew them very, very well.”

Solas dipped his head, and sharp, deep shadows fell over his eyes. “Falon’Din’s vanity was apparent early on. He oversaw the advent of the Dreamers taking on bodies, and of all the Evanuris he reveled the most in pleasures of the flesh… Dirthamen was a voracious learner, and he used his knowledge to protect the People. He was the first to successfully bind a Spirit—two, of course: Fear and Deceit. But in doing so he proved that such a thing could be done.”

“Spirits binding Spirits,” Ixchel wondered aloud, and Solas nodded almost imperceptibly.

“He long regretted how that knowledge spread, and he learned to be cautious in how knowledge was obtained…and by whom.” Solas spread his hands and looked down at his gloves. “Vanity is not a corrupting thing in and of itself, unless it is given the tools to act on its jealous nature—to covet, and take, and to enforce disparities… That was what Dirthamen gave to Falon’Din, and perhaps that was the beginning of the end of Elvhenan.”

Ixchel tilted her head. She felt her cheeks grow hot. “Did he…” But she thought better of her question and let it die half-way out of her lips.

Solas looked up and caught her eye with a flash of silver. “I am curious why _that_ causes you to hesitate?”

Ixchel adjusted her fur hood embarrassedly with one hand, and she could not help the nervous smile that crept across her face. “Well, I wear his vallaslin, and I am a young Dalish fool,” she said. “It sounds…like hero-worship, to ask, ‘did Dirthamen help you free the slaves, Rebel Wolf?’ when I know he is locked away with the rest of the Evanuris, likely for the same good reason.”

He stared at her considerately for a long moment. “Be not afraid,” he said. “I would not have you fear me, or what I think of you. And I would not have it _stop_ you from asking questions.”

Ixchel’s blush deepened, but she nodded.

“He did aide the rebellion, in the end,” Solas continued. “But he had sowed great fear and mistrust among the People…and among the Evanuris. It did not take them long to turn on him. Then they turned on Mythal.”

“So why is he imprisoned?”

“Because when they sundered him, they did so with Blighted lyrium,” he said darkly.

Ixchel felt her stomach lurch.

“It was Fear who turned him over to his doom, and it was Fear you met,” Solas said. “Deceit protected Dirthamen’s refuge to the very end. Strangely enough, I had thought it would be Deceit to betray us.”

“Perhaps that was the deception,” she wondered under her breath, and his lips twitched humorlessly.

“It is strange, how the Spirit shapes the form in this world,” Solas continued. “Though Mythal no longer walks as an elf, her children resemble the first of the Elvhen… In body and soul. But Morrigan seems more discerning than Andruil ever was, even when the Huntress was most lucid.”

“And she’s a good mother. A good friend.” Ixchel stared into the fire. “After the Breach was sealed again and he left, I traveled with Morrigan and her son to all sorts of hidden places… I thought I might find him there, or traces of him. I learned so much about how free mages can be, how the rules of societies can be so different from one another for no good reason…” She smiled a little. “I can’t wait for you to meet the Avvar of Stone-Bear Hold.”

Solas cocked his head. “Hm?”

Her smile grew. “Young mages are possessed by gentle Spirits to help them keep their emotions and powers in check,” she began, “and when they come of age, they become separate again—in a painless transition. The beings that the Avvar call gods are just Spirits who look over them, time and time again. They commune, they observe, they aide one another… But it’s only the Lady of the Sky, and Korth Mountain-Father, and Hakkon Wintersbreath who take on a more traditionally deific role.”

“And they have their hold beasts,” Solas added.

Ixchel’s smile grew even wider. “Yes,” she said. She looked over to the side and found Cole where she had expected him. “I can’t wait for you to meet them, too.”

“You wish we would come with you, as a gift to us,” Cole said, smiling back. “You wish you could bring Vivienne and Dorian and Cassandra, to prepare them for what’s to come. But you think you already heard their judgments: ‘courting Abominations,’ ‘overconfident, spelling ruin.’”

Ixchel blushed again and looked away. “Yeah,” she said softly.

“Oh, ‘ _ma’lath,”_ Solas breathed. She peeked up at him through her lashes and found him gazing upon her with sad, shining eyes. Then, he stood, and she opened her arms to embrace him as he came around the fire. He did not speak of that hopeless wish of hers. He did not speak of their stubborn friends and companions.

But Cole did.

“‘If you don’t get some sunshine, you’ll wilt,’” Cole said in the disconcertingly dreamy tone he adopted when he channeled someone from afar. “Daisy says she’s not a plant, she’s fine, but falling, faltering, foolish. Blood on her hands, people and demons always end in trouble, he thinks. But he tells the stories he can believe in. He talks and the fear fades for everyone else but not the sundered Child of the Stone. Not anymore.” Cole blinked, and smiled. “You should bring Varric. If he sees, he might believe, and if _he_ believes, he might tell Anders the story.”

Solas slipped a hand beneath her hood and smoothed back her hair. She leaned in to his touch.

“Maybe I will,” she said. “Thank you, Cole.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel kept her hood up even into Redcliffe itself, for she did not particularly wish to be recognized as the Inquisitor there. She and Cole led Solas through town in search of the ex-Templar responsible for the mortal Cole’s death.

And despite the fact that she knew how Compassion had reacted when he had seen the poor man, the last time the Spirit was at this crossroad, Ixchel was still taken by surprise when Cole suddenly vanished. He charged at the man, who they had found huddled in a wet corner by the docks, surrounded by spoiled fish.

“Cole!” Ixchel exclaimed, but Cole towered over the huddled, terrified man.

“You! You killed me!” Cole hissed. “You forgot. You locked me in a dungeon in the Spire, and you _forgot,_ and I died in the dark!”

Solas raced past Ixchel. “Cole, stop!”

Cole dropped the man, but there was nowhere for him to run.

_“He killed me!”_

“Cole, this man cannot have killed you,” Solas said, coming to stand beside the agitated Spirit. But instead of lacing his fingers behind his back like a cool _hahren,_ Solas put a hand on Cole’s shoulder and stooped a little to catch his gaze beneath his hat. “You are a Spirit. You have not even possessed a body,” he said firmly.

Cole shuddered, then raised his head and looked up at the sky.

“I am him,” he said in a trembling voice. “I had to be him, but harmless. The him he wanted that wouldn’t hurt. Not a Demon. Not an Abomination. Not a Mage. Human, alone.”

Ixchel drew closer with slow footsteps. Solas lowered his voice, and she nearly did not hear him over the waves lapping beneath the harbor.

“The boy was young, and deprived of the life experience that would have taught him other ways to help,” Solas said. “You can help as you are. As you were. You are Compassion, my friend. You are a Spirit, and your help is treasured in whatever form you may see fit to give it. If Cole were alive, he would see that as well.”

The Spirit boy blinked owlishly into the bright blue expanse above them. “Yes,” he said. “That is a truth.”

“It is true that this man’s negligence killed the boy. But Cole is dead, and vengeance will not help him now.” Solas paused and straightened up. “We must see to it that there is not a repeat occurrence. A mortal heart might see only two options: end his life so that he may not have another chance to inflict harm, or let him go and forgive him—let his future be his own, whether or not he chooses to harm again. But you are a _Spirit.”_

Cole closed his eyes.

“Think,” Solas said quietly. “Think of the help that only _you_ are able to offer, _Compassion.”_

“Compassion feels pain no one else knows, sometimes not even the self. I feel his guilt. The shame that drove him from the Templars. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll erase his records.’ They clap me on the shoulder, smell of oiled metal and blood. They smile like Louis did when he made me drown the kittens. Laughter bounces off the walls like a thin child’s fists.”

Cole swallowed tears.

The Templar at their feet drew a rattling breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice so broken it was hardly a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“Compassion sees the paths mortal hearts cannot walk unaided,” Cole whispered in return. “I know how to help you never hurt another in the same way. But you must…forget.”

He raised his hand and swung in the direction of the Templar. A light engulfed Cole from within, much as had burst out from beneath the form of Imshael. But now the light glistened behind the ex-Templar’s eyes, and he stared up at Cole with a slowly relaxing, disbelieving expression.

“You left. You left the place that made you hurt people, but you couldn’t leave your guilt. You must be free of guilt. The lyrium chains you enough.” Cole lowered his hand slowly. “Now you can help yourself, find help. And I can be free of grief.”

Cole turned slowly and walked back in Ixchel’s direction. Solas followed, and they moved a distance away from the Templar.

Cole silently removed the Amulet of the Unbound from his pocket and slipped it around his neck. Then, he vanished.

Ixchel reached for Solas. He embraced her tightly.

“It is interesting that the Avvar call Spirits 'gods,'" he said contemplatively above her head. "You once said that mortals ascribe Compassion, Kindness, Justice to be godly qualities, and in doing so render themselves incapable of embodying these virtues... And yet without Compassion's aide, we will never overcome the limitations of mortal hearts and minds."

There was a sorrow in his voice, despite their apparent success. Ixchel looked up at him and thought for a moment on his words, and what had transpired.

"Spirits reflect, don't they?" she offered. "That means that Compassion yet remains a mortal quality. The kind of forgiveness that we just saw is a hopeful one, a restorative one. We can learn that. Teach that."

A short laugh escaped Solas. He pressed his now-smiling lips against her forehead. "Of course," he said. "You are nothing if not mortal, and compassionate and kind." He stooped lower to slant his mouth against her own, gentle and light. "And you have taught me, and we have helped Cole..."

"And someday, our dream will be a reality," she promised.


	115. Will of the Maker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/22/21

“I should probably see how that man is doing for himself,” Ixchel said after a contemplative moment in Solas’s arms. “Hiding out behind barrels of fish doesn’t seem the best life.”

A lock of hair fell into her face as the wind picked up from the lake; Solas brushed it back into place, then ran his fingers across her cheek. There was a fond look on his face. “I will see if I can find Cole,” he said.

She nodded, and they parted.

Ixchel approached the ex-Templar, who had sat back against a low stone wall in the aftermath of his encounter with Cole. The man looked up as Ixchel approached; his eyes were clear and faintly blue, as though he had been recently dosed with lyrium. When he saw that she was coming to _him,_ he hurried to his feet.

“Ah, good afternoon, my lady…”

“Afternoon,” she greeted in reply. “I don’t suppose you might recognize who I am?”

Ixchel opened her cloak to reveal the Inquisition branding on her breastplate. The man’s eyes widened, and he fell into a bow. “Of course, Inquisitor. Everyone in Redcliffe knows who you are.”

“Good, good. I admit I do not know your name, Serah, but I do know that you may have been employed as a Templar at the White Spire.” She let her cloak fall back into place and held up her hands in a show of nonaggression. “My role as Inquisitor amid the Mage-Templar conflict has given me some insight into the treatment of Templars, and the treatment of former Templars. So I just wanted to see…how you’re doing, Serah.”

The man blinked at her. “How I’m doin’?” Ixchel held his gaze for a moment longer, and he looked away. “Oh. Er…”

“I just thought I’d offer… Well, if you needed it, maybe some hope.” Ixchel paused and assessed the man’s bewildered expression, then shrugged. “And if you didn’t need it…then I am glad, and I would wish you the best.”

She waited a moment longer, but she sensed that either the man hadn’t fully recovered from his ordeal with Cole, or he had no idea how to respond to her. Finally, she added: “Should your fortunes change, the Inquisition may be able to connect you with others who have left the Order, too.” She bowed. _“On dhea.”_

The man did not stop her as she turned to leave, and she walked away in search of Solas and Cole.

She did not find them as she wandered through Redcliffe. She spent quite some time walking around, keeping her eyes and ears on alert. She even stopped by the apothecary to check in on her and see if Solas or Cole had stopped by. But no one had seen them.

Ixchel returned to the center of town and felt her heart sink. She had been trying to avoid the disaster scenarios from running through her head for the past hour or so. She had silently mocked herself for even thinking of being worried for Solas. After all, she knew just how powerful he was. If there was any sort of danger, not only would he be able to get out of trouble—she’d probably hear it from a mile away, too.

But when Cole appeared in front of her, daggers drawn and bloodied, she immediately feared the worst.

Well, not the _worst._ The worst she could imagine was that Solas had rethought his recent decisions and decided to run off and end the world without her. She wasn’t so worried about that.

Still, the truth managed to defy even _those_ expectations.

“We found Anders,” Cole said breathlessly, and Ixchel’s jaw dropped.

_“What?”_

“I tried to help, but he’s hurt, and Solas tried to help, but—the Red Templars—”

_“What?!”_

“I found Anders—I mean Justice—I mean _Anders,_ and then the Red Templars found us, and then Solas found them,” he said in a rush. His voice shook like a leaf, and when Ixchel put her hands on his shoulders she found he was shaking, too. “I can’t help them! There’s still too much Templar in them, and too much Kirkwall!”

“Lead me,” Ixchel said immediately, and they set off running. Through Redcliffe, through the bustle at the city gates, and out into the woods, Cole led her. They continued on through the trees for a surprising distance. No wonder she hadn’t heard any fighting.

The realization of how far Cole and Solas had wandered raised Ixchel’s ire amid her panic, and Cole made an apologetic noise when her racing thoughts touched his awareness.

“We were a _lot_ closer before the Templars drove us away!” he protested.

Ixchel felt slightly guilty, but the heightened emotions in her powered her running steps—until Cole lunged forward and grabbed on to her arm. He caught her before she could run off the edge of a cliff, and he dragged her behind a rocky outcropping to hide. They dropped into crouches together.

“Are they in the cave?” Ixchel asked.

Cole nodded and closed his eyes, listening to something. “They saw we’re Inquisition,” he said under his breath. “They want revenge—sharp, hot, eating away at their stomachs like hunger, like the lyrium…”

“But they haven’t killed them yet?”

Cole’s voice caught in his throat, and his face twisted with pain that couldn’t be his own. “As soon as they see you…”

Ixchel grabbed him by the shoulders again. “We’re going to save them,” Ixchel insisted, and punctuated her words with a little shake. “We’ll be quiet. We’ll be quiet, and we’ll get to Solas and Anders, and we can protect them. How many Templars?”

“Eight.”

“Behemoths?”

“None, yet.”

“Shrieks?”

“Two.”

Ixchel closed her eyes for a moment. She tried to remember the layout of the cave below them, where the Rebel Mages had once holed themselves up in their war against the Templars. If she recalled correctly, inside the initial narrow entrance, the cavern opened up into a wider chamber. There was a waterfall—and with the acoustics of the hideout, it would help mask some of the noise of a scuffle. There was a back, inner chamber, too, where she had found some red lyrium…

Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard the lyrium yet.

“You will,” Cole said. “The Stone is thick here, but the song is loud inside. They’ve hoarded it, in crates and barrels and carts—a mine at the back, too. Their last holdout before the end, for the ones who want to live.”

“Plenty to hide behind?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Ixchel peered around the rock and over the edge of the cliff. She could see the hunched shoulders of a Shriek.

“There’s a knight in the hallway,” Cole whispered. “Walking back and forth.”

That meant the knight was probably checking on the Shriek to make sure nothing happened to it. Even if they were quick, even if they could move the Shriek’s body before the knight returned, an alarm would be raised. She’d have to take out them both at once—all without being seen by any Red Templars posted in the cavern.

Ixchel glanced back at Cole.

“On my count,” he agreed. “You get the Shriek, I’ll get the knight. We won’t be seen, if it’s fast.”

They crawled closer around the edge of the cliff and reached an outcropping directly above the entrance. Ixchel tried to control her breathing to keep as quiet as possible, and she flexed her fingers, tried to steel her mind in advance of the leap she would need to make—

“Now!” Cole’s command was hardly more than the movement of his lips, but she acted instantaneously.

Ixchel dropped off the edge of the cliff without hesitation, feet-first; the moment her toes hit the ground, her knees coiled and absorbed the impact. Then, she sprang back up with her chromatic greatsword pointed forward—and she activated the blade of light before the Shriek in front of her even had a chance to _breathe._ The song of the red lyrium crescendoed in the same moment, now that she was in front of the open mouth of the cave, but she did not falter. She tore the blade out of its back in a slashing motion, and its body fell, lifeless, a second later.

She didn’t spend even a moment to look over her shoulder for how Cole fared; the silence was telling on its own. She picked up the Shriek’s corpse and dragged it out of view of the entrance and tucked it behind a boulder. She pressed her hand over her heart briefly and turned back as Cole dragged his own kill out to the same spot.

Ixchel crawled toward the entrance again and stuck her head around the corner. She indeed saw that the cave was filled with red lyrium. She couldn’t see any Red Templars from the mouth of the cave, but she could see a large cart full of red lyrium spires. She gestured shortly with her left hand for Cole to follow her, and they crept forward to hide behind it. Being so close to the lyrium, surrounded by it, was almost unbearable for Ixchel. She had to physically squint as she peered beneath the wheels of the cart to take stock of the chamber.

Cole had mentioned eight total Templars. Two were down, but she could only see three scattered about the chamber. One was lying on a mat toward the back of the cavern—injured or otherwise resting. Two were standing together near the waterfall, and she couldn’t make out their conversation but she could hear the rough texture of their voices.

Ixchel realized suddenly she had been holding her breath against the choking atmosphere of the red lyrium. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself amid the overwhelming song, so sad, so sick, so sweet.

Five Templars accounted for. That meant three had to be guarding Solas and Anders. That would be tricky, if the mages were injured. She wouldn’t put it past the Red Templars to kill them as soon as they saw her, and her ability to get through three Templars at once…was dubious.

And in the presence of the lyrium, Ixchel’s heart clenched. These Templars were from Kirkwall. How many of their friends had fallen, before they had fallen under Corypheus’s thrall? How many of their family members had been in Kirkwall, and killed in the explosion at the Chantry there? How righteous was that desire for revenge, really, and who was she to take it from them?

In that moment, Ixchel’s visceral hatred of war, and the weariness of being Inquisitor twice over, threatened to overwhelm her. She wished she thought she could talk to them. She wished she thought they cared if she brought Anders to justice. She wished that there was some justice available other than a retribution killing… She wished she didn’t have to kill them, simply for having taken the wrong mage hostage.

Cole touched her shoulder. He had somehow found two staves. He tucked one under his arm, then handed her the other to do the same. She had to carefully adjust her grip on the hilt of her deactivated greatsword so that she could hold Solas’s staff without the metal butt of it dragging on the ground behind her.

Then, Cole signaled for her to hurry. She followed his lead without question and scurried quickly from her hiding place to another—behind a stack of crates. They skirted the western side of the room to avoid the knights gathered at the waterfall. Cole flipped one of his daggers around as they waited for an opportunity to rush around the corner past the sleeping or injured Templar, but Ixchel put her hand on his forearm and shook her head.

They continued to wait.

Finally, Cole set off, and Ixchel followed.

Their steps whispered beneath the roar of the waterfall, and they passed the sleeping Templar. Ixchel spared them a glance and saw that they were, in fact, mortally wounded. Perhaps she should have let Cole put him out of his misery. But there was no time to hesitate now.

They reached the top of the ridge and turned a corner to what had once been only a shallow chamber that ended with a wall of red lyrium. It had been opened up into a mine, and it wound around another corner out of sight.

Ixchel and Cole stopped just out of sight of the main cavern, and Cole signaled with his hands that the rest of the Red Templars were around the next corner.

Ixchel swallowed as she passed Solas’s staff off to Cole, and then she adjusted her grip on the hilt of her greatsword. Her heart was racing to the beat of lyrium’s song; the

But she forced herself to breathe—a breath in, a breath out. She kept her eyes fixed forward but mouthed, to Cole:

_Sneak behind the Templars. I’ll charge._

He nodded and crept up to the edge of the wall. He caught her eye, nodded, and vanished.

And Ixchel took one more breath.

Then she lifted herself to her feet, activated the chromatic greatsword, and barreled around the corner.

She swung the greatsword in a wide arc, for there was no way to know before she rounded into the next chamber where her enemies were positioned. Fortunately, two of them were within range, and she caught the Shriek on its bare arm and sliced into the side of a knight, right in the weak spot of his armor between his hip and the bottom of his breastplate.

The battle was on.

Ixchel’s focus was entirely on the Templars. She could not afford to let her attention waver to her allies. A moment’s glance in their direction could be the difference between life or death with a Shriek involved, and with three opponents now converging on her—and the knowledge that three more were likely about to rush up from the outer chamber—she could not afford anything but perfect awareness of everything all around her.

She ducked under a lateral swing of a Templar’s sword, then lurched to the side and rolled away from the Shriek’s attempt to skewer her through the back. Though she had considered it a boon that she had not worn her full plate armor, given the stealth that had been required of her, now she felt naked and exposed. She so rarely ventured into battles so unprotected.

The last time she had, the flames of Halamshiral had fueled her admittedly reckless one-woman crusade against gangs of Chevaliers. But the song of the Blight was all around her here, and that alone made her skin crawl. The scent of it hung heavy in the air and constricted her throat, and she knew that while she felt weak and ill in its presence, her enemies were only emboldened.

At least in Halamshiral she had had the overwhelming force of the Anchor to aide her. She did not dare call upon it yet. It was too close-quarters, and she could not risk catching Solas or Cole in a blast.

The Shriek fell just as the rest of the Templars joined the fray. Ixchel saw them as blurs over the shoulder of one of the knights she was engaged with—and then they snapped into focus.

For a split-second, she could see everything and everyone in perfect detail around her. She saw the way they each held their swords and shields, how they distributed their weight as they moved. She saw their bloodshot eyes and the veins standing out on their faces.

And Ixchel wished there was another way.

She sidestepped a shield bash, but she found the blow was not followed-through. The knights each staggered and slowed. Their eyes fell, dazed, to the ground.

Ixchel looked wildly in Solas’s direction.

But it seemed that he had worked no magic. She immediately knew from the way he had adjusted his grip on his staff that he was using it solely as a polearm melee weapon—of course, the Templars and the lyrium’s magic-suppression had to have been too strong here. So then…Anders? No. The lump of feathers and hide that Ixchel assumed was Anders was unmoving in the corner.

Solas met her gaze with just as much confusion and disbelief.

Then his gaze locked on to something over her shoulder, and she whipped around.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Samson drawled. He had Certainty in his hands, but the tip of the giant sword was pointed at the ground. “My men said they had captured that abomination from Kirkwall. Of course, I should have expected to find you here, _Inquisitor.”_ He chuckled affably. “You’ve pledged to help the little people and whatnot. Bring wrongdoers to justice. Is that why you’ve joined us here—to mete out justice for Kirkwall’s fallen?”

He raised his sword to gesture at her and his men. They seemed to resurface from whatever trance they had fallen under, and upon seeing Samson standing there, they regripped their swords and tensed, ready for battle once more.

Ixchel, for her part, stared at Samson in mounting anger.

 _“Vengeance killings_ are not how we prevent terrorism!” she spat back. “How many innocent people have already been killed by your Red Templars? How many people have been necessary sacrifices for you to get _attention!”_

She raised her sword to block a sudden swing from a knight. “In their blood, the Maker’s will is written!” the knight shouted at her, and all at once they were all springing upon her—

The head of Solas’s staff drove into the neck of a knight and blood splattered across Ixchel’s face. She dove forward and knocked the mortally wounded man’s legs out from beneath him and breached the ranks of the Templars to join Solas and Cole.

As the knights charged a them again, Solas proved that he was well-acquainted with polearms. Though the Veil felt far away here in the presence of so many Templars, and Ixchel _knew_ that he could not be powering his movements with magic, Solas moved so quickly that it was hard to believe he _wasn’t_ folding the Veil around him to Fade-step in battle. He used the whole length of the staff as an extension of his will; he slammed the butt of it into his enemy’s knees, pushed back against the knight’s chest with the body of the staff, and then in one lightning-fast motion, he brought the head of the staff close to his body—and drove it forward up and under the knight’s helmet. The full momentum of his body propelled the strike, and Ixchel heard the now-familiar sound of a spinal cord being severed.

Ixchel continued her own battle against the knights; it was more difficult than ever to maintain her awareness, now that there were simply _so many_ of them around her. But she was aware enough to notice that Samson did not join the fight.

He goaded his men with thoughts of home, of the fallen in Kirkwall, and directed their ire toward Anders. If only Ixchel would _stand aside_ and let them have the abomination—

But Samson fell quiet when the last knight dropped to the ground, dead.


	116. A Templar's Justice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "divining rods" came up in the Halamshiral arc, because I refuse to believe that every mage who needs a conduit MUST use a staff. There has to be something surreptitious they can use! So, basically, they are wands/very short staves.
> 
> 1/25/21

Ixchel raised her bloodied face to Corypheus’s former general and curled her lips back in a snarl. “Why didn’t you tell them to stand down?”

He was no longer smiling. “They deserved to believe they had my faith,” he said flatly. “I’d rather they died as heroes in their own minds, than have them live thinking I’d devalued their pain.”

Ixchel narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s going on?”

Samson glanced at the scene behind her. “How about we all move into the main chamber? There should be some healing tonics around there somewhere.”

“He means it,” Cole said, touching her elbow.

The Inquisitor straightened up slowly, though she did not deactivate the sword in her hand. In its rainbow light, Samson’s face was haggard and waxy, like a corpse’s.

Ixchel clenched her jaw and finally gave Samson her back. She turned to address Solas and found him leaning heavily on his staff with one arm curled tightly around his midsection. “I will be alright,” he said. “I am more concerned for this man.”

Cole carefully lifted Anders’s limp form over his shoulders and stumbled out past them, and past Samson, into the main cavern. Samson followed, and Ixchel limped along in his wake with Solas staggering by her side.

“It rarely hurts to listen,” Solas said under his breath. “But do not let yourself be a slave to honor.”

She touched his back to communicate her concern, though the look she gave him was hard.

Cole had set Anders down on the same mat that had been previously occupied by the injured knight. Samson had cracked open a crate and pointed at Solas, who came over and found it was full of medical supplies and gathered herbs.

Then, Samson walked over to the waterfall and sat down.

Ixchel followed, seething. At the sight of her bared teeth, Samson raised his hands defensively. “Look, I’ve got enough Templars to look out for who just want to live—I’m not going to waste my time stopping the ones who don’t,” he said.

She clenched her fists. “We could have—”

“What? Told them they were wrong for wanting revenge?” Samson’s thin lips twisted bitterly. “One of those men, his sister and her children died in the fires. The woman, Nat? Lost her lover who had gone to light some candles. Their home is gone. They were abandoned by the Chantry. Abandoned by the _Maker_. What else are they supposed to do except take justice into their own hands, make the world feel the pain it caused them?”

Ixchel did not dare remove her eyes from his infuriatingly calm face. She finally deactivated her sword and hooked the hilt to her belt.

“Tough to argue with, innit?” Samson’s laugh was dark and abrasive. “You live in a pretty world, Inquisitor. I don’t deny it. But it isn’t the one I’ve seen.”

When she crossed her arms and fixed him with narrowed eyes again, he inclined his head. “Alright. Alright. I _didn’t_ expect you here. But might as well ask, now I have the chance… How are my men?” His voice was suddenly more haggard, and once again Ixchel could see the pallor in his face, the damp sheen across his skin, the weariness in his stature.

And just like that, her anger’s hold on her broke. Her shoulders eased. “The ones who weren’t too far gone seem to be doing as well as expected,” she said. “We’re giving them normal lyrium to stabilize them. But…”

Samson sighed. “Yeah. Once you’ve got the worms in you, there’s no getting it out. If you don’t turn into a monster, eventually you just get sick. Seen it too often myself.”

“Makes sense. You know the stuff has the Blight?”

Samson snorted. “No kidding? No wonder Corypheus wants us full of it.”

Ixchel leaned against the damp, cold wall nearby. “They’re still being transported back from northern Orlais,” she said. “I was thinking if we can get them stable enough, we could try reuniting them with their friends and family.”

Samson’s brows drew up, skeptical, but a short breath escaped him and he shrugged. “That’s awfully kind.”

“I try to be consistent.” She chewed her lip. “I have some Wardens in my ranks now… Maybe my mages can work with them to find a cure for this red lyrium poisoning, or a way to survive it…”

Samson barked out a laugh. “Really? Wardens?”

Ixchel lifted one shoulder in a defensive shrug.

“You know why I’m in Ferelden right now, Inquisitor? Finding an entrance to the Deep Roads.” His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched as he watched the shock cross Ixchel’s face. “The ones who get sick want to go out fighting. The ones who go mad want to kill anything they see. Might as well be for some purpose we can all agree on.”

When Ixchel remained stunned into silence, he gritted his teeth.

“I… I wish there was a better alternative,” Ixchel said. “I don’t know if I can offer one.”

“It sounds like you’re trying, at least,” he admitted.

An uncertain silence fell between them, and Ixchel tucked her chin as she debated how to break it. “Maddox is settling in alright,” she said at last. “He tried to kill himself to protect you from our meddling, but we’ve told him we’re not going to force him to tell us anything. He’s working on some other projects now, for his own interests.”

Samson’s gaze fell away from her face and settled on the pool of water beside him. “But he’s still…”

“There’s a cure,” Ixchel said quietly, “I didn’t lie. But…it’s hard, regaining your emotions, after so long without them.” And didn’t she know it herself. “The few who’ve had it reversed have really struggled. Killed themselves. I’m not going to order it until we’re in a place we can ease that transition.”

Samson continued to stare into the water as he considered her words.

“We’re really in a fucking situation, aren’t we?” he murmured.

It was Ixchel’s turn to smile, sharp and rueful. She turned her head, too, to look down into the water. “People like you don’t make it easy for me,” she said. Before his ire could rise, she added, “And the world doesn’t make it easy for people like you.”

“I don’t know what easy would look like,” he shot back. “But you can always make things _simple_ , and that’s what I’m falling back on.”

Ixchel tapped her fingers on her forearm. “Why can’t it be simple, not to oppress one another?” she posed. “Why can’t it be simple, to understand that retribution only begets a new generation who will seek it for themselves? Why can’t it be simple to trust in our fellow mortals, struggling along in each of our ways?”

Samson snorted. “They weren’t kidding. You really like the sound of your own voice,” he muttered.

Ixchel scuffed her boot on the ground and scowled down at it. Her ears burned. “Why don’t _you_ tell me, then?”

“About a world without Mages and Templars?” he scoffed. “You and I both know, Mages aren’t even people to most people. How the fuck do you fix that?”

He cracked his neck testily and straightened up, the arc of his movement turning him toward the mouth of the cave.

“Take all the people who’re selling that lie for their own power, and kill them,” Ixchel said.

Samson grinned. ““You should write a manifesto, Inquisitor,” he said. “Maybe have the abomination look over it.” Then, he began walking toward the exit of the cave, still talking over his shoulder at her. “Corypheus still has about a garrison’s worth of Red Templars loyal to him, Inquisitor. And he’s looking for ancient relics that might have the power to breach the Fade, like that orb he tried at Haven.”

“Does he know where the Well is?” Ixchel called.

He gave her a cautious look, and she just pointed at her ears for explanation. It didn’t matter if he believed her or not, but she had found more and more lately that ‘ _the elves did it’_ was becoming a widely accepted excuse.

“Yes,” he said. “But he doesn’t have the forces to take it.”

“Certainly not without his red lyrium dragon,” she mused, and she gave Samson a very smug smirk. A beat passed, in which Samson looked her from head to toe and back again as he tried to assess whether he believed her or not. Finally, he shook his head and continued walking toward the door.

“May life give you better choices,” he said over his shoulder, now at the mouth of the cave.

“Better choices, Samson,” she said quietly.

She turned back to her companions quickly to assess their condition, and she found that Anders still lay unconscious between them. Solas had carefully pulled open the mage’s robes and packed a roughly-made salve over some gaping wounds in the man’s chest, but there was little else he seemed to be able to do. Solas himself had pulled off his robes, armor, and tunic to deal with his own injuries: a gash across his hip streamed blood down his leg, and it seemed he had been stabbed. But even worse, his pale skin was mottled with blue-and-black bruises.

“You get thrown down a cliff?” she asked, failing to keep the shock and horror out of her voice as she limped to his side. As she lowered herself to her knees, he let his hands fall from where he was trying to put pressure on the stab wound in his shoulder. Those hands were covered in blood and pungent herbs; his fingers lay curled and weary on his knees, palms-up. His face was tired, too.

That didn’t stop him from quirking an eyebrow at her. “As a matter of fact, I was pushed,” he said.

Ixchel took up the bloody rag and pressed it against the wound for him. He did not flinch. "I'm not going to ask you about—what was it? ‘Non-displaced rib fractures’?" She attempted to inject a teasing note in her voice, but again, she failed. “How is Anders?”

“He requires the skill of one more experienced in the healing arts," Solas admitted.

"There's someone in town who can be discrete," Cole said at her shoulder. "They sew up the brawlers underground and treated Mages and Templars. For coin, they'll keep any secret."

Ixchel met Solas's eye. "Alright... Be safe, Cole," she allowed.

Cole pressed his fingers against her forehead briefly. "Even simple things have consequences. Hurt touches hurt, inspires Vengeance or Greed. Things don't need to be simple to be _right_."

Ixchel sighed. “I know, Cole. Thanks.”

He left the cave in search of a healer. Solas looked down at Ixchel with an inscrutable expression, but she lowered her chin and kept her eyes fixed on his hands. It was hard not to see the beauty in them: long, pale fingers streaked with shining red blood, soft palms soaked with it like so much paint. Delicate and deadly, without distinction.

"You let Samson go again," Solas observed.

"Do you want me to justify myself?" she asked hollowly. "Because I don't know if I can."

Solas's fingers flexed. "You have no need, with me. If he is no longer serving Corypheus, then he is not an immediate concern. If he is truthful about his plans—whatever he told you they were—and those plans do not involve the continued slaughter of innocents, then he is little threat. The question remains the same for him as it was for Calpernia: our friends have been deeply hurt by this person, Ixchel, and there are many other victims. What justice will they receive?"

"He plans on giving it to them by dying like a Warden in the Deep Roads," Ixchel said quietly. "Acts of service to make up for what he's done. I think that's all anyone can ask of the wicked."

Ixchel let one hand drift from his shoulder down his arm, and she found his hand awaiting her. He laced their fingers together.

"Even such a blood payment may seem unfair if not meted out by the hand of the wronged." Solas tilted his head slightly. "Do you think there is any being you might not show such forgiveness?"

Ixchel thought for a moment, staring morosely down at their joined hands. "I don't know," she admitted. "Retribution is not justice... I don't think I'm the judge of what justice _is_ , but... I'm not going to stop someone from doing good. There isn't enough of it in the world."

Solas raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

 _What are you thinking, Solas?_ she wanted to ask. Instead, she pressed a little more against the wound in his shoulder and sighed again.

“What are you thinking, Ixchel?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrows, then shook her head. “Do we go to the Arbor Wilds and appeal to the Sentinels at the Temple of Mythal to warn them ahead of time? Do we go to Stone-Bear Hold and kill Hakkon before Corypheus can figure out that he’s locked there?”

Solas brushed his thumb across the back of her gloved hand. “I might be of assistance, _rogasha’ghi’lan_.”

She blinked at him.

“Felassan was not the only ancient one who serves the cause,” Solas said. “It may still be difficult to reach the Sentinels, but I would trust my agent to find a way without attracting Corypheus’s attention.”

She squeezed his hand. “Too many Sentinels died last time,” she said. “Too much of our history, lost. And the Well…” She exhaled slowly. “If you would try…”

A smile briefly passed across his face. “It will be done.”

They quietly went over the path to the Temple of Mythal; the landscape had changed quite a bit in the intervening years since Solas had last visited that corner of the world. Ixchel walked him through how to reach the Temple, if one started from Watcher’s Reach in the Emerald Graves. He promised to entrust the task to an agent that very night, if they were able to sleep peacefully.

Cole returned with a rather haggard looking man who, at first glance, seemed to be a trapper of some kind. But then he withdrew a divining rod from his sleeve and a lyrium potion and sat down beside Anders to begin healing. He did not raise his eyes to Ixchel at all, did not acknowledge them at all, but Cole whispered a price in Ixchel’s ear and the mage nodded silently.

Ixchel counted out the coins and left them beside the mage’s component pouch.

Cole hummed quietly to himself while the mage worked, and Ixchel and Solas sat in silence while they waited. When the mage finally finished with Anders, he passed his hands shakily over Solas’s wounds and closed them, but they remained angry and bruised. “All I can do,” the healer said roughly, then began to pick up his coin.

“I would prefer not to stay here,” Solas said as he slowly dressed himself again.

“I’ll start clearing this stuff,” Ixchel replied. She wrapped her scarf around her nose and mouth and activated her chromatic greatsword. If it were a normal blade, she would not be so cavalier as to use it to pulverize the red lyrium. Once she’d gotten it into smaller pieces, she pushed it all together in the back of the cave and let Solas finish the job with some rocks from the Fade.

“Will he wake soon?” Ixchel asked Cole, regarding Anders.

“They are healing,” Cole said.

“Alright,” Ixchel sighed. She carefully pulled the fallen mage’s robes around him and stooped to pull him over her shoulders. She hopped a little to adjust him, then nodded at Solas.

They walked slowly out of the cave and in the direction of the farms. It was night by the time they arrived at Dennet’s house, and the horse master’s daughter was the only one to answer their knock.

“Inquisitor!” Seanna exclaimed. “You’re back!”

Ixchel stumbled in the door and nearly collapsed in the entryway. Anders hit the floor heavily.

“Ran into some Templar trouble,” Ixchel said. “Would we be able to stay the night? We can bed down in the stables.”

Seanna’s eyes widened. “You kiddin’, Inquisitor? Your injured friend can sleep in my father’s bed—he sure isn’t coming back tonight.”

“As long as I’m not taking your or your mother’s beds,” Ixchel insisted, panting.

“Suit yourself,” Seanna said. “But here—” and she helped Ixchel pick up Anders again and get him up the stairs.

Cole helped tuck Anders in, and as soon as Seanna heard that Ixchel and Solas hadn’t eaten all day, she went to fetch some stew from downstairs.

“Where’s your mother?” Ixchel called down as she stripped herself of the armor she had worn that day. Most of their belongings were at the Inquisition camp outside of Redcliffe, but they had been too tired—and too concerned about Anders being recognized—to venture there. Solas busied himself with setting out their bedrolls on the ground.

“She’s in town for the night,” Seanna called back. “Staying with the apothecary.”

“Is she alright?”

“Oh, sure, she’s just gotta restock the farm for healing supplies.” Seanna came up the stairs again with two steaming bowls of stew. “She took the old nag, so she moves a bit slower. Just decided to stay the night.”

“Why didn’t she send you?” Ixchel asked with a laugh.

“Ma’s gotten a lil slower,” Seanna said with a grin. “She wanted me to work her whole garden over. That’s what I spent my day doing. Would’a taken her two days.”

“You are a good daughter,” Solas said, and he rose to go downstairs and wash the blood from his hands.

Seanna snorted.

“You _are_ ,” Cole said dreamily. “You know her pride, her strength. You help her in ways that don’t take those away from her. You are a good daughter, and kind.”

Seanna did not look in his direction at all, but from the way her eyes dropped and her smile grew, Ixchel knew that Cole had been heard.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel found herself with Cole in her dreams that night. They stood in an open courtyard of an architectural style whose match Ixchel had never seen before. Beneath them were great white floors polished to a mirror finish; around them were narrow pillars carved with delicate floral motifs. These intricate carvings were perfectly repeated—until blossoms became geometry, and geometry became structure.

Ixchel looked around in awe at this palace—it must have been a palace, for how grand and lush it was. The ceiling was vaulted and honeycombed with more incomprehensibly perfect designs; the light around them bounced off of the white floors and illuminated the whole space. In the wings, Ixchel could see bright cerulean tiles.

Between Ixchel and Cole, there was a channel carved into the floor for fresh, clear water. It bubbled up in a small pool behind them and flowed down an almost imperceptible incline toward the center of the courtyard.

And in the center was a long pool, fed by three other identical channels set in the floor at the center of each side and end of the courtyard. The pool was unnaturally still, such that for a moment Ixchel thought it were one long mirror. Reflected within it was a grand spire that rose up out of this palace.

“You should introduce yourself to them,” Cole said. “Before they wake. So they don’t fear you when they surface from the dream.”

“They?”

“Justice and Anders,” Cole said.

Ixchel looked around again with renewed awe. “Where are we? Where are they?”

“Safe,” Cole said. “This place was like Skyhold. _Tarasy’lan Te’las_. But this wasn't for them. This was only ever in the Fade. _They_ hardly even knew this place existed. But I looked, and I found it. And I brought Anders and Justice here to heal: _U’terelas Tunan._ The Tower of Justice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm imagining the Alhambra here. :)


	117. Running

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we....we... we broke 10k ;____; omg  
> thank you all for sticking around for so long, whether you started this fic yesterday and somehow binged all 117 chapters or if you've been waiting for every single post since day 1... wow ❤️ I appreciate all of you so much!
> 
> starting a new arc here! How many more to go? So many. So, so many.
> 
> 1/28/21

Ixchel followed Cole, and he followed the channel in the floor to the liquid mirror, then into the corridor beyond it. The walls were decorated with white and blue tiles, still depicting perfectly repeating blossoms. But as they progressed inward, the tiles became darker, then red. The floor was made of large, flat terracotta tiles, so tightly-placed that they seemed almost seamless. And then the hallway become a hall of its own.

Ixchel looked up in awe. The white plaster walls were not decorated with frescoes; nor were they decorated with mosaics of the Evanuris. Instead, they were adorned with writing in the curling Elvhen calligraphy—which Ixchel, even in this dreamscape, could not interpret. They served as backdrops to the true art of this place: its pillars. They were as intricately carved as the others Ixchel had seen, but here they were made to depict all sorts of fantastic creatures. There were the familiar forms of Mythal’s bow-necked dragons, Fen’Harel’s wolves, Ghilan’nain’s stags, and Falon’Din’s owls. There were ravens and rabbits and serpents. But there were other creatures Ixchel did not recognize, and she could not have hoped to begin to describe them.

Cole led her through this entrance hall and up a spiral staircase to another floor. The doorway here was carved not with geometric shapes or flowers as the others, but words—words, words, words. The words themselves were the art; each elegant letter fit perfectly against the next, and this tapestry of words hummed with magic, for it was inset with lyrium.

The ceiling of this large room was domed and dark; it seemed almost like a canopy of branches above them, and golden light filtered through down to the amphitheater below. In the amphitheater waited two figures. One, Ixchel recognized immediately as the man she had helped rescue. Anders stood with his shoulders hunched, much like Solas when he was trying to go unnoticed; perhaps he had adopted a permanent stoop. His hair was long and darkened as though he had not seen the sun in a very long time. It was pulled back in a messy bun. His beard was likewise unkempt. His clothes, on the other hand, were utilitarian—almost militaristic. It almost called to mind the armor of the Wardens, which was odd for a mage, and even here, he wielded a heavy staff.

The other man immediately reminded Ixchel of the Spirit who had taken on the form of the Divine. It was made of light, and it wasn’t. While the ‘Divine’ had glowed with a hot, orange-red light like a sun at the end of day, this Spirit’s sharp blue light pained Ixchel’s eyes; it was like staring into a pillar of Hakkon’s ice aglow with divine light from within. And though its shape suggested that of a man—a bare head, sharp cheekbones, heavy brow, and broad shoulders—it had no recognizable features of the living. This was Justice. Blank-faced.

Blind.

His light clung to Anders, as though some vortex drew his essence toward the mage even when they were separated here. Anders looked up as Ixchel stepped into the room with Cole; though Justice did not turn, the Fade between them warped and crackled with suspicion immediately.

“Who goes there?” Justice demanded.

“I am Inquisitor Ixchel Lavellan,” she responded. “I have rescued your physical body from a Red Templar ambush. You are safe.”

Anders looked her over, then Cole. There was a shadow in his eyes that Ixchel recognized in Fenris’s gaze, too: the look of a man who had been hunted so long and so far that he saw enemies around every corner. His eyes dropped down to Ixchel’s hand, and she held it out, palm forward, for him to see the Anchor.

“What do you want?” Anders asked.

Ixchel tried to keep her voice as amicable as his was suspicious. “Compassion thought I should introduce myself before you woke in a panic,” she said earnestly. “I know better than to startle a mage such as yourself.”

“You mean an abomination?” the mage shot back, grip tight on his staff.

Ixchel tried not to bristle, but she did not take well to having her best intentions brushed aside. Perhaps it was simply their combined influence in the Fade affecting her mood, but she had to physically cross her arms and hold her breath for a few seconds to relieve her own mounting tension. “No,” she said in a low, firm voice. “I mean any powerful mage. Let’s be clear—I keep the company of all kinds of people and Spirits. For that matter, I would hate to cause a trained Chevalier to panic, either. It’s rude, and I value my life.”

Justice scoffed, and Anders looked away sharply as the Spirit spoke. “Is it not your _job_ , Inquisitor, to step in the middle of the Mage-Templar War and mote out Justice?” the Spirit asked. “Is that not why you are here?”

Ixchel was so surprised by the reminder of her true job description that she nearly laughed. Before she could reply, Cole stepped between them all. He tipped his head back so that his face was visible under his hat, and he assessed them all with wide blue eyes. “The Inquisitor’s Justice is considerate and kind,” he said firmly. “She will _not_ hurt you, and she will not let you hurt anyone else.”

At Compassion’s words, the constant flow of light from Justice into Anders flared. The mage wrapped himself around his staff as though to steady himself against the wave.

“Right,” Ixchel said, watching the two of them warily. “I have complete freedom to deliver such judgments how I see fit, _but_ that isn’t why I’m here. Compassion heard you were in trouble. That’s all, and now I’m talking to you as Hawke’s friends, and Mahariel’s. What were you two doing out here?”

“Running,” Justice said, and his voice was as painful to hear as he was to look at. “Like always.”

Anders gritted his teeth at that and shook his head, sending his long fringe into his gaunt face. “You say you _know_ Mahariel—”

“Yes,” Ixchel said, “and his wife and son.”

Anders’s shoulders seized. “He has a _son_?”

“We can talk about Halevune when you wake up,” Ixchel said. “For now, I’d like to know if I need to prepare for another ambush or something. What are you doing all the way out in Redcliffe?”

Anders shifted his weight back on one side and tapped his staff on the ground, his eyes narrowed down at it. “The Prince of Starkhaven’s trying to find me,” he said bitterly, “and he’ll burn Kirkwall to the ground to do it. I hoped leaving would make Aveline’s life easier…” The butt of his staff hit the ground with particular viciousness. “You may have legitimized the movement of the Free Mages, but that has not endeared me to them, or to the Circle mages, or to the public.”

“ _Rightly_ so,” said Justice angrily.

Ixchel gave the Spirit a startled look. “Did you not also have a hand in that…decision, Justice?” she asked.

“We were justified in our actions,” the Spirit said. “The unchanging world is stubborn, and it is filled with noise. There is no other way to incite change except to rise above the noise. Yet the act requires atonement, for which there can be none. We should have died with a dagger in the back, and our continued existence only brings innocents more harm.”

Ixchel’s gaze floated between the two in front of her as her assessment of the situation began to develop. Anders finally raised his eyes to Ixchel as she scrutinized them, and now Ixchel realized that behind the suspicion and anger he presented, there was a familiar exhaustion deep in Anders’ eyes. Her mouth went dry at the recognition.

She tightened her grip on her arms. “So what _are_ you doing?”

Neither Anders nor Justice seemed willing to speak to their plans. She stared at Anders for a moment longer, then looked to Justice’s blank face. Then, she looked at Cole.

“Gods cannot be reborn until they die,” Cole said. “Hakkon took on his own form, shaped by the wills of the Jaws, but it was still his. Imshael’s was his own, too, like mine is. But Spirits trapped in another's mortal form…that isn't what happens to them. I don't know what happens to them."

Ixchel set off pacing around her three companions. “So you seek to be separated from one another?” she guessed. “How were you going to accomplish that? Still don’t trust me?”

Cole tilted his head, considering Justice and Anders. “The hut in the wilds,” he said. “ _She_ called to them.”

Ixchel closed her eyes as she paced. “The Witch of the Wilds called to you?”

“I—how do you—?!” Anders pushed back his hair to give her a narrow-eyed glare. “Yes. Flemeth called to me, somehow.”

Ixchel felt her hackles raise automatically. “Don’t speak her name, please,” she said. “I’d rather not get her attention.”

“Not here,” Cole agreed.

“We do not allow ourselves to walk the Fade often,” Anders said. “But you have somehow brought us here, as Flemeth did.”

“Yes, how is it that you found this place?” Justice asked. “By all rights, it feels like…like home. Yet I have never known such a dream existed.”

Ixchel glanced at Cole for explanation.

“I listened to the song your blood sings. The oldest one,” Cole said. “The dreams are there, deep down. The herbs make your mind sleep, but it doesn’t stop the singing. That’s how Amarok helped you help Talim, and that’s how I could help you, Anders, Justice.”

Ixchel’s lips quirked slightly. “Thank you, Cole.” She looked back at her company. “Did you get that?”

“No, not at all,” Anders said. “And how is it that we’re…we’re…well, _somewhat_ separate, here?” Anders asked.

“That’s what this place is _for_ ,” Cole said, spreading his hands. “You may have shared _wills_ , but you are not the same _person_. You should not be judged as such.”

“I think what he means is that this is a remnant of Elvhenan, whose empire stretched across the Dreaming and Waking lands,” Ixchel said. “This was a place of judgment, for denizens of the Fade. It would stand to reason there were instances like your own.”

Cole nodded, smiling.

“Compassion has no place in the halls of Justice,” the eponymous Spirit said in an icy voice. “Justice must be meted out impartially. It should not matter whether we knew Hawke, or Mahariel, or if we are one or separate—”

“Oh _shut up_ and let me be kind to you!” Ixchel snapped, advancing upon the Spirit fearlessly.

But then Samson’s jab rang in her ears, and she clenched her jaw to stop her upcoming tirade. She exhaled heavily through her nose and she continued to glare at Justice for a moment longer. But when she could gain nothing from the blank expression where the Spirit’s face should have been, she turned away.

“I believe mages should be free, and Spirits should be treated as people, and that is how we shall treat you," she said finally.

But the mention of Flemeth had thrown her, Anders’ anger had thrown her, and she had not been prepared to handle the question of their judgment and fate quite yet. There was so much she simply did not understand about—abominations, for lack of a better term. (Was there a better term?) And there was too much she understood about anger, and exhaustion, and guilt.

She wondered how Solas would have fared, in her position.

“He’s not here,” Cole said. “You are. Burn bright, _rogasha’ghi’lan_.”

Ixchel sighed and turned back to Anders and Justice; the former was giving her an almost guilty look. “Both of you, listen to me. I travel with apostates, Magisters, and Compassion—a Spirit who crossed the Veil without possessing a body, and he is Unbound. Let my choice of company be a testament to my merit, please.”

“And Fenris _still_ liked her,” Cole said to Anders.

Anders raised an eyebrow at Ixchel, who had blushed a little. “Well now, that _is_ a feat. Fenris doesn’t like _anyone_. Fenris doesn’t like _Fenris_.”

Ixchel waved at him dismissively and tried to go back to her professional demeanor. “If you’re willing to listen, then, I have a proposal for when we wake.”

Anders snorted. “I’m listening.”

“Speak,” said Justice.

“Mahariel’s wife is one of the Witch’s daughters,” Ixchel said. “Given what I have learned from her, I believe going to the Wilds in search of her should be your last resort. The Witch gives no gifts freely. And I would see you _free_ —the both of you. So…come with me to the Avvar of Stone-Bear Hold in the Basin.”

Ixchel’s heart raced even as she came to her decision, and she second-guessed herself the moment she spoke it aloud. She had not been prepared to return _so soon_ , but so be it. The strings of Fate were pointing her there—in Anders, in Hakkon, in Corypheus…

Cole’s face broke into a wide smile. “Yes,” he agreed.

“What would the _Avvar_ have for us?” Anders asked. “They like to brawl and throw goats—”

Ixchel was too distracted to laugh. “They have no Templars, no Circles. Their mages are trained by Spirits, and when they come of-age, they separate peacefully—without changing the Spirit, and without harming the mage.”

Anders’s jaw dropped. For the first time, his brow had cleared of anxiety and suspicion. Ixchel wasn’t sure that the abject shock she saw now was much better. “We can discuss it more when you wake. We might need to earn their trust before they agree help us—and if you do not like their methods, you may leave for the Wilds on your own, unhindered.”

She ran a hand across her face. _Fuck_ , she thought. _I need a small army to deal with the Hakkonites and probably the Venatori, but every Inquisition soldier is going to know I have Anders with me..._

“We’ll be in the trees,” Cole said. “No one has to know.”

Ixchel chuckled ruefully. “That’s a good way to be unprepared for everyone learning what you’re trying to hide, Compassion,” she said, and she was only half-joking. Leliana would know, and Cassandra—and Ixchel _wanted_ Cassandra to meet the Avvar…

She turned back to Justice and Anders. “When you wake, you will find myself, Compassion, and my friend Solas. We’re staying in a farmstead west of Redcliffe—trustworthy people. Stay and talk with us some more, at least.”

Cole found her hand and laced their fingers together. “He’s waiting,” Cole said.

Relief poured through her. She forced herself to wave at Anders and Justice with as best a smile she could muster. “Nice meeting you, finally.”

Before the two could address her further, Cole pulled her out of that place and into Solas’s dream. He stood in the Emerald Graves, on a hill topped by a wolf statue in a pavilion. Ixchel knew the place well. Solas was indeed waiting there, dressed in his golden armor and wolf pelt. He turned, chin high and regal, as they approached.

“ _Arasha_ ,” he said warmly, and to hear him address her in Elvhen with his honey-smooth accent while he wore such imposing ancient armor—it made her heart do something funny in her chest. But even here, even in the Fade, whatever light, girlish feeling might have spurred her to run to him was not able to overcome the anxiety that preoccupied her.

She approached him slowly, and as she drew closer, his features melted into an expression of concern. His stance melted, too; he had stood with his arms clasped behind his back, ever the military leader, but now he reached for her elbow with a gentle, questioning hand. She swept him up with her, and they set off walking around the pavilion.

“We just spoke to Anders and Justice,” she told him. “How did your meeting go?”

“I trust that my people will establish contact with the Temple attendants and Abelas,” he replied. “Do not let it worry you. Tell me what preoccupies you.”

“ _Ma serannas_ ,” she said with a sigh. “It’s more relieving than you know, to have that taken off my shoulders, Solas.” His fingers curled around her elbow and drew her a little closer, but he did not speak. She stepped into the space he allowed and let the story pour forth. “They’re trying to separate from one another.” She sighed and squeezed her elbow to bring his hand tighter to her side. “And you know who promised him a solution? Here’s the hint: he was trying to go to the Korcari Wilds. I wish I could go _just a minute_ without someone trying to meddle…”

Solas chuckled darkly. “It does seem that the All-Mother is quite invested in the fates of a rather small, interconnected group of people.”

“Anyway, I’m sure she _would_ help him, but not without something precious in exchange… So we’re going to the Avvar instead, as soon as Anders can walk.” She shook her head. “Which complicates _that_ plan of mine. I should bring Cassandra, and Dorian, and Varric. But— _fendedhis_. They’ll kill him on sight.”

Her lover made a low noise of sympathy, but something about his manner drew Ixchel’s gaze. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Keep him out of sight,” he said. “Let us reach this Avvar hold and plant Anders among them, or at least among someone friendly nearby—and then we might control if and when he is reintroduced to those who might know him.”

“That’s basically what Cole said,” she lamented. “I don’t want to keep a secret from Cassandra. It will destroy her trust in me. I mean, _this_ secret, at least.”

Solas turned to face her more fully, and he pushed her hair back behind her ear. His eyes glittered as he looked down at her with some inscrutable emotion. Her heart sank at the sight nevertheless.

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “you must choose.”


	118. Mythal Enasal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing all these chapters through gritted teeth really but I hope you like them!  
> 2/1/21

Ixchel turned her face into Solas's hand, because she couldn't look at him at that moment. She knew he was right, and she knew this was her responsibility as Inquisitor. More than that, even, it was her responsibility as an agent of change. It was _her_ dream she was trying to force on the world, on the Chantry, on these societies, and she would have to show them what justice looked like in that world.

And it shouldn't be hard. She _did c_ ondemn Anders' and Justice's actions in Kirkwall. She would not tolerate terrorism, even in the name of a better world. But Cole was right there beside her; she had seen Imshael's golden form; she had seen Wisdom twist into Pride at the behest of mortal mages... She knew better than anyone how difficult the mortal world was for Spirits, and how even corrupted Spirits weren't beyond saving. That was one of her core beliefs.

Yet she did not know what to do in light of it, now.

"I must speak to Cassandra first," Ixchel said into Solas's palm. "I owe her that, after all the choices I've made without considering her…"

Solas breathed with her silently for a moment, then said: "You cannot take Anders to Skyhold. But will you summon her here, without making her aware of what she will find…?”

“No, I can’t,” she agreed. Ixchel raised her hand to clutch Solas's tighter to her cheek. "Will you stay with them, for me?" she asked quietly.

Solas was silent for a moment, and she raised her eyes to ascertain why. His face wasn't particularly expressive, but she could tell that he had immediately understood what she intended to do. And maybe it was because they were in the Fade, or maybe she had truly gained the ability to read him behind his masks, but she could see his reaction to her plan plain in his gaze. There was an appraisal there, a respect. But mostly she saw guilt. It was not guilt for something he had done to cause her suffering, at least; she had seen that all too often. Rather, in the situation laid out before them, he seemed to have been reminded of something that haunted him.

Ixchel recalled how he had spoken of coordinating rebel movements with Sera, once, so long ago. He had spoken of ruthless executions, a remorseless policy of need-to-know—and now that she knew he had murdered his agent, Felassan, she understood exactly the kind of choices that might be responsible for the look in his eye.

She was the leader of armies. She was a political figure who could make empires tremble in fear. And this—and so many of her choices—would be recorded in blood and history.

Ixchel couldn’t help but think, perhaps, that she was slightly less impulsive than the elf who had thought his only option was to create the _Veil_. Yet he, in all likelihood, had thought himself better than that, too.

_As long as the music plays…_

"Then you will go back to Skyhold with Compassion?" he asked finally.

"No, I need to stay with Anders and Justice," Cole said. Ixchel nodded and closed her eyes again. "No one else in Thedas knows what they’re going through, but us,” Cole added.

"I do not doubt that," said Solas, "nor do I doubt your ability to reach Skyhold on your own, 'ma'lath. I simply wish you to have some assurance of...solidarity, as you brave a potential confrontation."

Ixchel squeezed his hand. "I do," she told him, but she wasn't so certain of how useful it would be when what she wanted was for her friends’ continued love.

 _If anything were to end it, this would be it,_ she thought.

But she had thought that before. She was once again on the precipice of the unknown, the same cliff she had stood at so many times. And Cassandra had _promised_. She had sworn. She had told Ixchel not to doubt her friendship. Ixchel tried to tell herself that Cassandra was a woman of faith, a woman of her word.

Cole put his hand on her elbow. "They can’t even _imagine_ you as a prisoner anymore,” he said. “They can’t imagine it, so they won’t, so you won’t be. You’re the _Inquisitor_. That means something to them."

"All I'm afraid of is loss," she told him softly. "But that can't stop me, when there's so much to gain."

Solas's lips twitched a little ruefully, but he made no further comment. Instead, Cole’s presence left their dream, and Solas raised his other hand to frame Ixchel’s face in his hands. Once more, he gave her that look of rueful recognition—but she did not fear it.

And Solas did not give her reason to doubt, for he drew her closer to kiss her such that no other thought could fit in her mind; no fear could find purchase in her heart. For as long as the dream might last, she could find solace in him, and he in her.

It would be the _din’an’shiral_ either way, after all, but they walked it now together.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel woke with the strangest feeling that her lips should be kiss-bruised, but they weren't. The thought alone made her blush.

After she took a moment to revel in that feeling, she rose up out of the corner on the floor she had claimed for herself and assessed the room. Anders remained asleep on the bed, bandaged and bruised but already looking less corpse-like than before. Cole was curled up like a cat at his side. And Solas had fallen asleep sitting up, his chin tucked and his hands folded against his stomach.

She smiled a little and gathered her things and crept downstairs. Seanna wasn't in the house, it seemed, but the stew from the previous night had been left on fresh coals to reheat it for her guests.

Ixchel left the farmhouse in search of Seanna. She found the woman working with the horses, of course. Before Seanna even noticed her arrival, Ixchel picked up a pitchfork and stepped in to help. It was something she would never be allowed to do now, as the leader of a living and large Inquisition. But it was something she missed from the early days, in Haven, and it made her happy to be able to help someone without killing anything. It was such a rare recourse, these days.

To her great relief, Seanna hardly commented. She spared a grin in Ixchel's direction, but that was all.

Ixchel lost track of time as she and Seanna took care of the morning's tasks, but eventually Cole came and found her. Ixchel looked up as she sensed his presence and found him looking over his shoulder back at the farmhouse; Anders stood in the doorway.

The mage was even more haggard than he had seemed in the Fade, and of course, much more blood-stained. He leaned heavily on his staff for support as he intently watched Ixchel work.

Ixchel straightened up and pushed back her sweaty fringe to stare back at him in return.

She looked at the man whose fate she would play a part in deciding. He was also a man who, in many ways, had played a part in shaping her own. Just as she had told Sebastian, she fully believed that the role she had stepped in, and the opportunities she was seizing upon to change the world, would not have been possible without the bombing of Kirkwall's Cathedral. There would have been no Inquisition without it, but also, the ruling classes and world leaders would never have been confronted with the pain of their policies, they would never have been forced to provide answers to their people, if there were not such a threat at the edge of their minds.

Ixchel wondered, as she looked at Anders and Justice both, what had become of them in the past-future. Had they found a way to separate? Had Anders, too, ended his life? If not out of despair for the future, then due to regret for his past?

She only knew that she had not been the one to decide his fate.

She wondered if he had been so close by when she had last helped Cole track down the former Templar. But it had been a different season, a different year. No—it was impossible. So some twist of fate had conspired to bring them together now, some fluke...

Or some meddling from the Elvhen Goddess of Justice and Vengeance.

And it would be Ixchel's turn to decide what Justice looked like, potentially while she looked him in the eye. She supposed that she would not have it any other way.

 _Mythal enasal,_ she thought wryly.

Cole laughed.

Ixchel reached a good stopping place with Seanna and then returned to the house to join her small company. Anders had returned to the fire to huddle with a bowl of stew, though he did not seem to be eating much. Solas had apparently worked on his own lingering wounds and, having spent more mana than was probably good for him, had nodded off again in a corner by the fire.

Cole and Ixchel approached Anders but did not sit too close him, out of respect for the slightly feral look of him.

“It is good to meet you in the waking world,” Ixchel said, wiping sweat from her brow. “I hope your wounds do not bother you too much? We had to hire an underworld healer in Redcliffe to bring you back from the edge of death.”

Anders gave a small, huffing laugh. “If that’s the comparison, then yes, I feel fine,” he said. His voice was softer here than in the Fade, both weary and weak. It sounded thin, as though it had gone a long time without use.

“Those Red Templars were originally from Kirkwall, before their corruption,” Ixchel said. “Did they just stumble upon you and think it was a fine time for revenge?”

He had stared at her so boldly a little while ago, but now it seemed like he could not meet her eye. His gaze wandered constantly, both distracted and on-edge. “Must have,” he said.

“Yes,” said Cole.

Anders’ gaze slid to Cole’s. The mage’s blue eyes were watery and distant, but they seemed to gain a new light when he looked at the Spirit boy. “So you are Compassion.”

“Or Cole,” said Cole. “I am light, unfettered. I cannot be bound, broken. Well-wishing, clean and clear. I can slip back across a small kind of thing.”

“Definitely a Spirit,” Anders allowed, with the thinnest veneer of a chuckle. “And you remain.”

“I can help here,” Cole said. “I am understood, I am drawn, I reflect.” He lay his hands on his knees, palms up, and directed a bright smile at Ixchel, who gave him a slight twist of her lips in reply. “There was Despair here, but no longer. _Rogasha’ghi’lan_ leads us down the bright paths.”

Ixchel felt as though ice had been poured down the back of her shirt, and she hunched over as though to shield herself from the sudden scrutiny his words brought. Cole closed his eyes, and that helped some—to be free of his keen eyes that saw too much—but his smile didn’t fade, and he did not stop his dialog with Anders and Justice. “That hurt her to hear, because all she sees are the shadows. But Solas was right: where she walks, flames catch. And that scares her, but she is _not_ a wildfire. She is not a _dragon_. The only people who fear her are the ones who know they hurt people and don’t want to stop.”

“Good enough, I suppose,” Ixchel allowed. It had been many years since she had been so unnerved by Cole’s insights, but she felt _exposed_ by his words now, in front of Anders. She supposed it was probably necessary, to gain this poor man’s trust and understanding. And what Cole had revealed was a true enough account of her thought process at the moment.

She gestured at Cole. “I know that Justice’s manifestation in the waking world was far different than Cole’s,” she told them, “but your paths are just two of the many that were once quite common. By ‘once,’ I mean ages upon ages ago. And so much has been lost, and so much has been molded by the Chantry, that you haven’t had the guidance you might have needed. But Compassion thinks we can help, and I trust him. I trust him more than I trust Flemeth.”

Anders had followed the movement of Ixchel’s glowing had while she spoke, and now he looked back at Cole. Though he did not immediately speak, Cole nodded along as though he were listening to a stream of dialog in Anders’ mind. He probably was.

“I hear it too, Justice,” said Cole. “The lyrium. The red is sick, Blighted, bleak, hopeless—searching, sad… All true, but lies, too.” He frowned. “It grows on both sides, but it doesn’t sing, there. Not to Spirits.”

“Right,” Ixchel agreed. “It whispers in the Fade.”

“No, that was just Fear,” Cole corrected. “It hums, voiceless. There is no need for voices there.”

“Anyway,” Anders said suddenly, and his tone had grown sharper to cut off their conversation. Ixchel got the feeling that his sharp tone was for Justice as much as for Cole. “You wish for me to believe that _you_ are what the Chantry-led Inquisition has chosen to believe in? A Dalish elf who consorts with Unbound Spirits? Who condones—”

“What?” Ixchel asked icily.

Whatever spark had caught his ire left him. His eyes dropped back to the bowl in his hands.

“Right.” Ixchel snorted and looked over at Solas, whose head had tipped forward in his sleep, and he jolted awake. “ _Dirthara ma,_ ” she said petulantly, if only to see him blink at her in sleepy confusion and concern.

Ixchel took a deep breath and sat back to look at Anders again. “Let’s start over,” she suggested. “I don’t condone the events in Kirkwall. It is my job to see you held accountable for the lives that were lost—if not for the chaos that followed.” She kept her stare fixed on his forehead, for he still refused to look up from his lap. His shoulders were limp and everything about him was resigned to whatever she was about to say. “But I refuse to simplify this to a matter of blood for blood,” she continued. “You say you want Justice freed, and then you will seek your fate. What do _you_ think you deserve, Anders?”

“Nothing,” he said quietly. “It is what the world deserves, and those I have harmed, and those who I would help. What the cause deserves. And that is…for me…to no longer be a scapegoat, or a target, or a symbol. To be removed.”

Ixchel did not look at Solas, and she did not look at Cole. She continued to observe Anders’s heavy head. Below, she could see his nail scratching contemplatively at the side of his empty bowl.

“I will keep that in mind,” she said at last. “Not all of my allies are so open-minded as we are here, and they would have no qualms about destroying an abomination.” She shook her head slowly. “So, if in the waking world, you would still be willing to let us help you… I’d like you, Solas, and Compassion to make your way to the Basin. Keep a low profile while I coordinate with Skyhold.”

Anders was silent.

“Then I will tell you more of what awaits us in the Frostback Basin,” Ixchel continued. “An Avvar cult who worship a god of war, Hakkon, are trying to manifest him in the form of a mighty dragon,” Ixchel continued. “I believe Corypheus might also seek out Hakkon, to control him. The Hakkonites, the Venatori, and the Red Templars who remain loyal to Corypheus are more than we can handle on our own. Believe it or not, Flemeth is another player in this game, and whatever she promised you is likely part of a larger strategy to further her interests. I hope I can deliver you the same outcome, with no other ulterior motives. As much as I can promise, anyway,” she finished solemnly.

His mouth quirked weakly upward. “Right.”

She waited a moment longer, then finally allowed her gaze to return to Solas, who had been watching and listening without ever having moved from where he reclined. “I will probably bring Seeker Pentaghast, Dorian, and Varric,” she said. She was immediately aware of how Anders’s grip tightened on the bowl in his hands, on the periphery of her vision, but she did not comment. “Scout Harding should be in the Basin already. I don’t know her political sympathies, but…she might be willing to find a secret and sheltered place to set up a small camp, for you three.”

“Lace,” Cole said happily, but no more.

Solas nodded. “As you say.”

“Then… I’ll return to the camp and collect our belongings, bring them back here with the horses…and I’ll set out for Skyhold,” she said awkwardly. “Perhaps the three of you will have an easier time getting to know one another, without the title of Inquisitor hanging over your shoulders.”

She slowly raised herself to her feet, and she held out a hand for Solas. He clasped it briefly, just long enough to pass his thumb comfortingly over the back of her hand. Just long enough for her to feel his pulse in sync with the thrum of his magic in her palm and her arm. Just long enough to matter.

Then she slipped away and set off on foot to do just as she had described.

It wasn’t a very long walk, in the scheme of things, but it was strange to travel alone. And that, in itself, was strange. She had spent half her life almost completely and utterly alone, after all. She could even recall how strange and uncomfortable it had felt for her when she first was in Haven—too many people living on top of her, too many prying eyes, ears. It had taken months for her to acclimate…

But then it had happened fast. Then, she had been hooked. At some point, she had stopped equating _company_ with _confinement_ and realized that it meant _care._ She had never been without Dorian or Cassandra or Solas or Cole. The others, too, but—at least one of them, at least someone was always with her, for she was _addicted_ to their care for her.

Ixchel shivered a little as she walked now. There wasn’t much snow at all around here, but it was cold—and colder still, alone.

She looked down at the water as she crossed the bridge; the shallow creek reflected nothing but the grey afternoon sky; it wasn’t deep enough to host any life, but still, she stared down at it as she walked with such intensity that she drew to a halt. All the while, she tried to convince herself that she shouldn’t be so bothered.

She had depended on the loyalty and love of her friends so entirely before, as a girl. When would she stop doubting them? At what point would she have enough evidence to outweigh the feelings of loss and betrayal that haunted her from a future that should never occur, now?

_All she sees are the shadows._

"Thanks, Cole," she said to herself, and she continued on without anything remotely close to an answer for herself.

Ixchel tried to convince herself that it was a good thing, to face the confrontations that awaited her at Skyhold, on her own. It was good practice in _trust,_ to force herself to walk into these conversations with Cassandra and Varric and Cullen on her own. She would be weak, a hypocrite even, if she could not face the consequences of her actions and beliefs with humility and a brave face.

 _Rogasha'ghi'lan,_ she had been named...but she had named herself. She had chosen this path.

It would be a long journey back to Skyhold.


	119. Troubled Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe someone's a little jealous. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) but it's cool  
> \--  
> also if you haven't noticed:  
> join me on tumblr! I'm making art and stuff and reblogging that good good DA content  
> and check out the latest in the Bloodied & Broken series -- a valentines/fluffuary prompt fill: "Our Careless Heads with Roses Bound"
> 
> 2/4/21

Ixchel left Solas's horse and Isenam in the stable with Seanna's stock, then returned to the farmhouse with Solas's belongings. She set them down by the door but gave him a little wave, then returned outside. He followed a moment later, and they walked off to the north of the farm for some privacy.

"I am starting to realize how...entwined they are," Solas said gravely, once they’d drawn far enough out of earshot. "Justice has been molded into something else—not simply Vengeance, but not fully into personhood, either. It is surely a miserable state of being. And it is far more complex than Compassion's decision to become mortal or not."

"Then it really is fortunate that they have you," she said, laying a hand lightly on his hip. He glanced down at her as he walked, his own hands clasped behind his back. She offered him a tight smile. "I defer to you on these matters. Though in the end... I don't know if we can convince Anders he shouldn't die."

Solas gave her a thin smile. "Do you believe we should convince him?" he asked in an idle voice.

"No," Ixchel admitted. "Life is worth living, unless you have no hope to live free."

"And he does not?"

"He'd always be on the run. The very people he'd wish to help would reject him... And all that would await him is the Calling, anyway," she said wearily.

"Ah. Yes. He was a Warden."

Ixchel shrugged. "As much as any of them were Wardens during the last Blight." She shook her head. "Mahariel said none of them knew anything about being Wardens besides the fact that they were _necessary_ , and I don't think Anders stuck around long enough to be called one, in truth."

A harsh breath escaped Solas's lips, but he did not comment further. Instead, he tilted his head to listen to something to their northwest.

"I sense an artifact," he said.

"Do they really strengthen the Veil?" she asked, though she was already walking in the direction he had signaled.

He nodded slowly. When he did not immediately begin telling her how it worked, she gave him a nudge. “How?” she prompted.

Ixchel glanced up at him in time to see his ear twitch toward her; he was struggling to hide a smile, and it eased something wound tight in her chest to know how she could please him with such simple curiosity. But she did want to know. “You said the Veil was like…like a song, itself?”

"The Veil is a perfectly discordant song designed to disrupt the harmony of the dreaming and waking worlds," he said. Ixchel grinned at the careful, measured tone he often adopted when he found a new lesson to impart. "I began this song at Skyhold, and the Veil is a creation that stands in its own. But these...devices receive, and amplify, and transmit the Veil back upon itself. I do not know when they began to fail. Likely, it was long before Corypheus."

"Will they be enough for some time?" Ixchel asked. "Or will they only hold off the inevitable for a little while?"

Solas spread out his arms in a wide shrug as they crossed a shallow creek. "I would need to study them with greater attention, perform tests... But it likely can wait until Corypheus is no longer a threat."

“Alright, professor,” she teased. “I’ll be sure to hurry and defeat this would-be god. The good news is, I’m years ahead of schedule.”

Solas made a soft noise of surprise. “Really?”

She was careful not to look back at him as she led the way up the next hill, and she kept her voice light. “I was sixteen at the Conclave,” she reminded him. “I didn’t spend _that_ long chasing Fen’Harel. Most of it was trying to figure out what the _fuck_ this darkspawn Magister was.’

There was a bear waiting for them at the mouth of the cave, and Ixchel handled it quickly with Solas’s barrier over her skin. She stood over the carcass while Solas lit some veilfire and tried to decide if she were going to skin it or not.

But as he turned and disappeared into the cave, Ixchel found that she did not want to waste their last few hours together on such an ultimately inconsequential task.

She followed Solas into the crypt and studied a rune while he went to activate the artifact. Unlike many such veilfire runes she had found over the years, it did not impart instructions for some lost technique—rather, it was a hymn that dedicated this place as a wine cellar:

_Holy Sylaise, wise and fair,_  
_once held this place in her care._  
_Sweet Sylaise with your warm song,  
_ _keep our wine sweet ‘til the feast is done_ .

Though Ixchel understood their meaning, she heard the memory narrated in what was clearly an Elvhen accent. She narrowed her eyes at it. “This is from Elvhenan?”

“Seems to be,” he said as he stooped over the artifact.

“It feels like it’s incomplete? Is that right?” She turned as Solas made a noise of agreement. “This has happened in a number of places, then. My agents once found part of what looked like Vir Dirthara in the middle of the Deep Roads. The stone just…became books. Did I tell you that already?”

He finished activating the artifact and came to join her in the pale light of the veilfire. “Dreams are limited by what one can imagine,” Solas said, “and what one can imagine is a reflection of one’s experiences. And if one’s experiences came from the material world, well…”

Ixchel frowned. “I thought they fell?”

“Yes. _Out_ of the dreams,” he said softly. “Such as what will happen to Morrigan’s eluvian network someday.”

She continued to frown as he turned her away from the rune, and as his arms came around her, she buried her frown in his chest. His shirt was stiff with dried blood, and he smelled strongly still of red lyrium and electricity. But beneath it all, he smelled like Solas. She breathed him in as she slipped her arms up around his back and committed it all to memory. She had no idea how long it would be before she would see him again.

At least there was no longer a voice in her heart that questioned _if_ she would see him again any time they parted ways.

She dug her fingers into the lean muscles of his back and sighed. There was so much she wanted to say, but she didn’t have the energy. She wished that they could help Anders and Justice. She hoped that Solas… _enjoyed_ the opportunity to help, too. She wanted him to have as many opportunities as she could provide to bring his world back to life—one person at a time, perhaps. And she hoped that this was a good chance for Cole to feel helpful, now that he had chosen his path as Compassion. She wished she could be a part of it, but it had simply become clear that she was not equipped to connect with Anders and Justice. She did not possess the lore or experience to help them through the dark place they had found themselves.

And that hurt. Because as much as she was grateful that she was alive, and as much as she had moved on from her anger at her own resurrection—she she was having a difficult time separating her responsibility as Inquisitor from her desire to help a friend and her desire to change the world. Some of those things would be easier if Anders lived, but if he didn’t want to, then…? But if he _wanted_ to die, then…?

She shook her head at herself against Solas’s chest and sighed again. In the end, she was a well-intentioned blunt instrument of change, and she knew that to be useful, she needed to go bash some heads together at Skyhold.

That didn’t make leaving any more palatable. And she didn’t know how to speak of it without sounding either petulant, or weak, or—

“I will miss you by my side,” he said over her head.

—or maybe it was as simple as that.

She took a deep breath of him and closed her eyes. Voice muffled in his chest, she knew he heard her more perhaps for the vibrations of her words than for the sound itself: “And I, you.”

“I believe my dreams will be somewhat spoken for, given the company I will be keeping,” he admitted. “Perhaps this is a good opportunity for you to practice your wards—I know.” He hushed her softly and pulled away to look down into her face. “But if you can keep _me_ out, you should have little to fear from your enemies.”

“I know,” she agreed balefully. “I never practice when you’re around, and I _should_ , but…” She blushed a little despite herself and mirrored his rueful smile. “I’ll see if Dorian will help me.”

Solas gave her a shallow nod. “If you have need of me, I’m certain that Compassion will let me know,” he told her.

“I know,” she said again.

His brow softened at her tone, and he kissed her forehead at the center of Dirthamen’s crown. Before he could pull away, she reached up and caught his face in her hands. She kept her eyes closed as she held him, brushed her thumbs across the flat planes of his cheeks and curled her fingers in the soft warmth behind his ears. She never wanted to be without the _sensation_ of him at her fingertips. His hands settled on her shoulders and bunched in her hair, which she had worn loose today, and he let her have her moment to bask in his aura. As much as she loved walking the Fade with him, this was what she would miss the most.

But even so, she was filled with the sudden, sharp longing to be _closer_. More than sex, more than lying entwined with him, more than walking the same consciousness in a dream. It was as though every piece of her had been carved from him and wanted to return to where it belonged. Perhaps that was true, in a way, and she wondered what would ease that ache—if anything ever could.

She did not fear that feeling, or how it might grow in his absence. Rather, she _relished_ it, here in his arms, just as she might worry at a wound or prod a bruise. It served as a reminder, a tether, an anchor, and it was good to know it was there as she was preparing to leave.

“Perhaps there will be good news from Wycome,” he said, lips ghosting across her skin with every word. “Perhaps the Dalish will have made plans for their Arlathvhen. Perhaps the new Marquise will have established order in the Dales.”

“I hope,” she said in reply.

“And by now, the last of our friends will have all returned from the Western Approach,” Solas added.

She nodded silently.

A long, slow breath eased from him, and he tightened his fingers in her hair. “I can see you arming your heart for battle already,” he said. “How is it that _I_ believe in Cassandra’s willingness to listen to you, but you cannot?”

“I can, I just—” Ixchel stopped herself and shoved her face into his chest again. “I don’t know how to not be like this.”

“It’s alright, Ixchel,” he soothed. “That is what we discussed in the Emprise, is it not? I am not the one who can tell you how to accept your fear, to feel it, without living in the worst outcome before it has arrived. All I can do is observe when you are doing it and hope that you can move beyond its confines.”

A shiver ran down her spine at his words, at the conjured memory of that cold night where her tears had frozen to her face and she had let him see some of the darkness within her. The Despair. But he was right; she was tensing to absorb a blow that might not come, and a stoic facade might not be the best strategy to avoid it, either.

“What do you fear?” he asked her now. “That they will strip you of your title and imprison you? Kill you for sympathizing with an abomination? Call the Dalish savage a _heretic_?”

“I don’t want Cassandra to feel that I don’t respect her sense of justice,” she admitted, and as soon as the thoughts became words, they summoned tears to her eyes. She almost laughed at herself, but she could not deny that speaking these truths was helping her to feel them, to ground her. “And…Cullen…”

Solas made a sound that drew her eyes upward. His expression was somewhat guarded. “What?” she asked.

“I do not know if you should worry about him,” he said, voice prickling with some negative emotion. “It seems he is primed to replace his lyrium addiction with another. You could easily position yourself as the alternative.”

“ _What?”_ she repeated, pushing back a little. Solas scowled in response. “Are you kidding? Whatever he feels about me, if I challenge this part of the Chantry, then there’s no way he’d still feel—”

“So then what are you afraid of?” he asked sourly.

Ixchel’s lips parted in shock, and as he scowled down at her, the full truth dawned on her. She stared at Solas in dismay. “That’s—I’m not— I don’t care if he—”

“Then what are you afraid of?” he repeated.

She floundered as she tried to put into words what it meant to have Cullen’s friendship. They had been so close once before, and he had been so _kind_. He had supported her in some of her darkest moments, then and now. He had never hesitated to offer his companionship, even when she couldn’t bring herself to ask for it. The fact that there was some new distance between them already hurt her, when she compared their friendship to what it had been, what she knew it could be.

But if she really investigated it, she knew it _couldn’t_. Something had changed, now that she was older—now that she was more sure of what she believed in and challenged the Andrastian world order with every action she took. And as much as she worried about how _Cassandra_ would react to her, Solas was right. A part of her, even if it wasn’t a loud part, _did_ trust that Cassandra would remain at her side. That the Seeker would listen and still care for Ixchel after what she heard, even if she didn’t agree. Because Cassandra had promised.

Ixchel was less certain of Cullen and the strange territory they traversed. Because they hadn't had the same relationship foundation to fall back on--and that hurt to think about. Losing him. Not losing his affection, but losing his friendship.

How could she explain that to Solas?

“He was the only one who stood with me after I disbanded the Inquisition,” she said at last. “He was the only one who didn’t leave. And here I am, leaving his way of life behind, calling everything he knows _wrong_. And…he asked me to be someone to support him, in this life, and I owe that to him after everything—so—and—I don’t want to see _my friend_ fall, Solas.”

Her voice, tight with tears, cracked on his name. Her lover’s brow remained clouded, eyes dark. He watched her wipe at her face in silence.

“That is noble,” he said at last. “And kind.”

“So you think… Solas, I could _never_ manipulate someone like that. I’m not… I’m not _so_ vain, that I would care about whether or not he…whether or not he has romantic feelings for me.” She swallowed, gaze dropping to their feet. “That hurts, Solas.”

He dropped his hands to her shoulder. “I did not mean to imply that I think you are manipulative,” he said harshly. “Please, believe that.”

She blinked rapidly. “So then…”

Solas’s breath was rough in his throat. He held her at arm’s length, thumbs dug into her shoulders to steady her. “You two are close, and you were close before we clarified our bond,” he said carefully. “As are you and Fenris…”

“Oh,” Ixchel said with a shaky laugh. “That’s all, then? Should I swear my commitment to you in Elvhen? Would that help?”

“I do not doubt your faithfulness either,” Solas said. He gave a harsh sigh. “I simply understand that it is possible for hearts to want many things simultaneously, and… I did not want to think that, but, if it were true… I would respect it, as I respect your feelings for the Blue Wraith…”

Ixchel raised her hands to cover his. “I closed those doors, Solas," she told him with as earnest a look as she could muster. "I told you. There's only you, forever, as long as you wish it... Maybe it’s hard for you to believe that…?”

She could see it in his face, immediately—that yes, that was something that remained difficult for him to believe.

And now she truly did not want to part ways.

“If I could spend a year and a day just proving that to you, I would,” she whispered.

“You should not waste a year and a day,” he replied, voice softening to match hers. “There are better uses of your limited time… _Ir abelas_ , I did not wish to send you off this way.”

Ixchel laughed again a little. “It certainly took my mind off of all of my other imagined troubles,” she admitted. “But I don’t want _you_ to be haunted by this doubt while I’m gone.”

“I will do my best not to be,” he promised, and he laced their fingers together.

Ixchel wished they were not in a dark, cold cave. She wished that they did not have a proven terrorist waiting for them back at the farmhouse. She wished that they had had even another day to spend with one another, alone in the woods…to kiss under the moon…to smooth over this sticking point and reassure him, and herself.

But they did not have these luxuries. So she simply stood on her toes to kiss him one last time, and then she pulled him by the hand back to Dennet’s farm to collect her belongings.

Solas stood in the doorway to watch her departure, but Ixchel did not look back once she had mounted Isenam and set off on her way.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel took her own path back to Skyhold rather than travel with any of the scouts or a supply caravan. She had discovered this alternate route a few years after the Inquisition was disbanded; it was both more scenic, and more secluded, than the main road from Redcliffe to her mountain fortress. Charter had praised her for it, after Ixchel had showed it to her, for it was also somewhat unintuitive and would throw off all but the most experienced trackers. Not that Ixchel was ever particularly concerned about being tracked, back then. She had had a suspicion that Fen'Harel's agents and cultists were explicitly forbidden from harming her.

Now, she and Isenam followed this route primarily for the scenery, and for the solitude. Part of Ixchel wanted to fly back to her home as quickly as she could. But another part of her, cold and steely, thought she should sit with her thoughts after all that had transpired in Redcliffe.

She contemplated on such matters as she passed by ancient Elvhen watch towers and crested hidden valleys and forded rivers frozen so perfectly, she could see down to their depths through the clear ice. In the Fade, she practiced her wards and did not dare explore the history hidden beneath the snows. She did not go searching for company, but instead tried to meditate as Solas had instructed her to. In her dreams, she did not allow her fears to take a hold of her, while in the day, she sat with her fears and her knowledge of what had passed, and what would not come to pass.

When the Inquisitor returned to Skyhold, it was with a feral look in her eye. This lone wolf of a woman stalked in from the cold and brought her war horse back to the stables—but she was not gruff with her horse master. Rather, at the sight of him, her hunched shoulders eased and a faint smile graced her face. She brought Seanna's greetings back to Dennet and spoke of his wife's health, and he showed her that her white hart had arrived. They fawned over him together and discussed the virtues of his wide, noble rack for a quarter hour before her friends came to meet her.

"Maker's breath, _mula_ , where is Solas?"

Dorian's voice rang out shrilly from somewhere above her, and Ixchel looked up to see him flying down the stairs from the kitchen. He was followed by Varric, while Bull, Thom, Cassandra, and Cullen marched over together from the courtyard to her left.

Ixchel held up her hands to stave off the onslaught. "I left him in Redcliffe with Cole," she said. "He's fine."

"'He's fine'?" Dorian repeated aghast. "Is that a southern turn of phrase for having a falling-out? Should I fetch a bottle of sympathy wine?"

Ixchel snorted. "Just the opposite. He stayed behind because I trust him entirely to carry out my will," she corrected. Then, as her other companions congregated around her, she took her packs off of Isenam's saddle and tossed one to Bull. "I want to speak to you all in turns—Cassandra, you first. Then Varric, Dor, together. Cullen next. Then everyone else. Vivienne too, if she’s back.”

A heavy silence fell over everyone then.

"Yeesh, Champ," Bull said with a whistle. "You alright?"

She gave him a long look, then shrugged one shoulder. "Ask me in a few hours,” she offered, then gestured for Cassandra to join her as she made her way to the war room.


	120. Behind Closed Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ixchel feels the extent to which this fic has Loads and Loads of Characters(TM)
> 
> 2/6/21

Ixchel nodded at Josephine curtly as she led Cassandra to the war room; she was glad that her Ambassador picked up on her mood and did not follow them. Ixchel set down her things at the foot of the war table and then turned to face her fate.

And as their eyes met, Ixchel found that she did not know what to say. For all the thought she had dedicated to this moment, she had not thought of how to _start_ this conversation. So she stared at Cassandra in helpless silence.

The Seeker crossed her arms momentarily, then seemed to decide against it and let her hands fall to her sides awkwardly. Her lips thinned with discomfort while the moment dragged on. At least Ixchel knew that she wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how to approach the moment.

“So… _has_ something happened?” Cassandra asked finally.

Ixchel’s shoulder’s slumped. “A lot,” she admitted. “It’s mostly just…complicated.” She decided to sit on the floor, and as she folded herself down into a cross-legged slump, she gave Cassandra an apologetic look. “Can… Can I just get it all out, before you say anything?”

Cassandra raised a single eyebrow, but she lowered herself down to the ground as well. Every motion made her armor and weathered clothes rasp loudly, which made the silence that followed all the more awkward. In any other setting, Ixchel would have smiled at the thought of them gathered like children on the floor. But instead, Ixchel dropped her gaze to her hands and stared down at them unseeingly as she forced herself to begin.

One word in front of the other, she thought to herself. She just needed to get the story out, and then she would deal with Cassandra’s reaction.

“It was supposed to be an easy outing. We were going to help Cole with something, and then we were supposed to just come back. But then I got separated from them, and Cole found me and said that Solas was injured… There were Red Templars.”

Cassandra drew a startled breath. Ixchel gestured quickly. “Everyone’s alright now, don’t worry. But the Red Templars had found another apostate and were trying to kill him, and Solas stepped in the way. Cole and I came to the rescue and it turned out that the apostate…was Anders.”

She restrained herself and did not allow her gaze to wander up to see Cassandra’s reaction. But she could see enough of Cassandra’s gauntlets in her peripheral vision to notice that the woman’s hands had balled into fists.

But Cassandra remained blessedly silent.

Ixchel took a deep breath and continued. “Solas was injured. It was just me fighting these Red Templars, and then Samson showed up. On top of everything else.” She dug her nails into a seam in the stonework beneath her as her anxiety mounted. “The last time I _really_ fought Samson, I had a whole army at my back and I still nearly died. So when he didn’t want to fight, but he wanted to talk, I let him talk. And when he left, I didn’t stop him.”

Cassandra leaned forward, seemingly despite herself. Her voice was both eager and nervous, “And what did he want to talk about?”

“He’s taking the last of his men to the Deep Roads to die like Wardens,” Ixchel said. “He also told me that Corypheus does still have a group of Red Templars who are still loyal to him. So we won’t be facing another army of them, but they’ll still be an issue in the future.”

Ixchel finally gave in and looked up at Cassandra to find the Seeker giving her a somewhat blank look. When their eyes met, Cassandra seemed to understand that she had room to comment now. Her brows plunged together over her stormy brow.

“Do you believe a word that…that monster says?” she asked. “The red lyrium and the Blight are connected, we have learned. What if they are going to recruit Darkspawn to their ranks? What if they are going to gather more red lyrium?”

“Those are good questions,” Ixchel said, almost taken-aback. She wasn’t surprised that Cassandra was suspicious—but she was surprised at the thought of Red Templars, or Corypheus for that matter, would try to work with Darkspawn. “I have no idea. It did _seem_ like he had turned on Corypheus. I doubt they’ll be hard to track now, regardless. Leliana can keep an eye on them.”

“Possibly,” Cassandra agreed. Then she lapsed back into silence. Her hands were still fisted on her knees, and her gaze was still hot on Ixchel’s forehead as the Inquisitor looked away again.

“So…Anders,” Ixchel said hesitantly. “He and Justice want to be separated, and then Anders wants to face his fate. But that’s where it’s complicated.”

“It seems fairly simple to me,” Cassandra said. Ixchel winced, and Cassandra let out a breath through her teeth. “I apologize. Go on.”

“I don’t even know where to start!” Ixchel said in exasperation. “You heard me talk to Sebastian. I don’t agree with terrorism. And I also don’t think executing people really solves problems. But I think that’s what Anders wants: to die. The Free Mages don’t want his help, the Loyalist Mages despise him and everything he stands for, any Templar in Thedas is going to want to murder him because he is or was an abomination… There is no one and no where he could live in peace. Let alone escape his guilty conscience. And I—of all people, I would respect someone’s choice to die.”

She wrung her hands now and stared down at the glowing green tear in her palm. It flashed back at her like a warning, though it did not actively hurt at the moment.

“And I know it’s my job. The _reason_ for the Conclave was Anders’ actions in Kirkwall, and the Mage-Templar conflict is still at the heart of the Inquisition. But no matter what I do…what will happen within our own ranks, with all our Free Mages and all our Templars? If I harbor him or keep his company _at all whatsoever_ , I’m sure there will be reprisals—Templars against Mages, and vice versa if I execute him. And it’ll certainly lose us every piece of political goodwill we’ve mustered in Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches, from top to bottom.”

Ixchel unfolded her legs and raised her knees to her chin, which she rested there so that she could meet Cassandra’s gaze. “But… even though I think I _should_ kill him…even though I think you all want me to execute him, or at least sentence him…”

Cassandra raised her eyebrows as though she had expected an objection, and it had arrived on time. Ixchel flushed a little. If Samson was able to predict her, she shouldn’t be surprised that _Cassandra_ could, too.

“Even though,” Cassandra prompted.

Ixchel swallowed what felt like a bundle of gravel in her throat. “If I kill him without helping him separate from Justice, then we lose a Spirit of Justice,” she said wearily, “and _that_ goes against everything I stand for—and everything I want people to believe in. It’s important to me that you, and our Templars, and our Andrastian Mages, know what’s possible. Because a world _did once exist_ where good Spirits and people lived in harmony. A world _existed_ where Spirits helped mages control their magic, rather than let the fear of their magic control them. Our world used to be hospitable to Spirits, so that they wouldn’t get corrupted into Demons just by being present in it. And that world still exists to this day, in the Avvar.”

She gave Cassandra a pleading look. “So if I know a way to separate them, I should do it—and then I can give Anders the end he desires, and the one that will soothe so much of the tensions across the continent… But I don’t know how to get Anders to the Avvar without everyone knowing that I’m sympathizing with a terrorist. And that’s my issue.”

Her throat had tightened even more as she spoke, and tears pricked at her eyes, but she was filled with a greater sense of calm, too. For Cassandra was listening. The Seeker had tilted her head a little, eyes narrowed, but Ixchel knew that look well. She knew _Cassandra_ well. This wasn’t a look of skepticism or antagonism. She was trying to imagine this world Ixchel spoke of.

And it helped, but it hurt just as much.

“And they must be separated…?” Cassandra asked slowly.

Ixchel nodded. “When Spirits are stuck in mortals…killing them doesn’t put them back in the Fade the way it did with Imshael, who wasn’t _possessing_ anyone. It would be a waste—and cruel—to lose Justice.”

“And you are certain that Justice remains a…a Spirit, not a Demon?”

“Spirits and Demons are the same,” Ixchel said. “Justice is… _Justice_. That’s a virtue. A rare one. What happened in Kirkwall wasn’t because a malicious Demon possessed Anders and said, ‘I’m going to use this human puppet to kill hundreds of people.’ A _virtuous Spirit_ was trapped in our world, and its sense of Justice was repeatedly thwarted—again and again, it was denied the ability to practice Justice. But it still had the drive to do it, and so it sought it in the only way it could, with the only tools it had left: Anders’s own anger. Because that’s what Spirits _do_.”

Cassandra flexed her fingers and frowned. “But what of Hunger?” she asked. “Would that not be a creature whose existence should be expunged upon detection? What would that be, if not simply a Demon?”

Ixchel leaned back a little as she considered that. She, perhaps better than most of her inner circle, knew how terrible hunger could be. She had lived through long, barren winters; she had gone to sleep for days on end with the terrible pain of her stomach eating itself for lack of any other substance. But then she thought of the first warm loaf of bread after such a long fast. She thought of the gentle routine of helping Deshanna prepare food from that day’s hunt—the hunger and anticipation as meats cooked and stews simmered.

Ixchel had now attended many banquets and feasts fit for—and often _meant_ for—the lips of Kings and Empresses. She knew how humble the Dalish communal meals were in comparison. But hunger? Hunger made her grateful for all of them in equal measure. Hunger elevated even the most meager portions, the stalest leftovers, into something to be grateful for.

“A Demon, just like starvation, is born out of mortal greed, lust for power, and desire for control,” Ixchel offered eventually. “What’s the best way to deal with a starving alienage, on the edge of rebellion? Murder them all? Or feed them?”

“Point taken. An Orlesian would say that feeding the poor is what would start a rebellion,” Cassandra said with a derisive smirk. Ixchel granted that a laugh. But then the Seeker’s face grew solemn once more. “May I speak plainly, Ixchel?”

The Inquisitor bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. A heavy breath eased out of her as she forced herself to relax, to not anticipate a failure when things were going so well, perhaps—

“You are demolishing the foundation upon which every modern society has built upon,” Cassandra said.

Immediately, Ixchel’s spine tensed; her breath was lodged somewhere in her stomach, and she was afraid that if she tried to breathe she would speak, and she did not want to _speak_. She was afraid of speaking, of saying something that might shatter their rapport now. So she held her breath and closed her eyes to help her focus on listening.

Cassandra’s voice shook as she continued. “ _But_ …as you told Prince Vael, that foundation was already fractured by the events in Kirkwall. And I have told you that I believed all this was…perhaps an inevitability, Inquisitor. Mages had been starved for certain freedoms for too long. And Templars had been starved for…for compassion, in their own right.”

The Seeker paused, and Ixchel imagined she could hear the woman’s teeth grinding as she weighed what she was about to say. But when Cassandra spoke again, her voice had softened.

“Surely, it was never meant to be like this. The Chantry, the Circle of Magi, the Templars. This cannot be what they intended when it all began. After learning the truth about the Seekers, about Tranquility, and where my abilities came from… I am far more willing to listen to what you have to say, Inquisitor.”

She sighed.

“But you are right to fear what our Templars and Mages will believe, and even more than that—what Andrastians who have no experience with magic or Spirits will think. I have been thinking on this particularly since our time in Halamshiral, and after we captured the Red Templars at the Shrine of Dumat.”

Ixchel opened her eyes and found that Cassandra wasn’t even looking at her anymore. The Seeker’s eyes were locked on the windows over her shoulder, at the stained glass panes that filtered the afternoon light and cast its red slashes across Cassandra’s upturned face.

“Perhaps Templars and Mages are unique in their ability to understand one another. Perhaps, if we can overcome the Mages’s fear of abuse, or the Templars’s fear of vengeance, they would be able to see that. But for the average person who has never known a Circle Mage? Whose only experience with Templars is at a Chantry service…?”

Cassandra paused. Her lips moved silently for a moment, and then she shook her head. “The Chant has been sung in many voices. And I do believe that that is beautiful… But it has been _interpreted_ by only a few. Those interpretations are now beliefs, a world order. To upturn that…? It may cause a great deal of fear. And…fear leads to the greatest of tragedies.”

“Yes,” Ixchel said hollowly.

Cassandra looked back at her with a rueful smirk that Ixchel was suddenly too tired to return.

“Cass, we need to go to the Avvar anyway—there’s a dragon involved. But ideally, I would like to take Anders, to help him separate from Justice. But…a _lot_ of Inquisition people will have to know that he’s with us.”

Cassandra’s brow eased, and she crawled forward a few paces to sit closer to Ixchel. She took the younger girl’s hand and squeezed it. But a heavy silence fell between them as they each looked up at the windows.

Ixchel found that, though something in her was rapidly withering as she realized how futile her plan for Justice might be, Cassandra’s hand clasped in hers was all that much more relieving. She leaned her head on the Seeker’s shoulder and sighed again. “So, Solas and Cole are with them now. I have complete trust in Solas and his ability to keep track of Anders. I just don’t know what to do.”

Cassandra squeezed her hand again. “Perhaps I have spent too much time with Lady Montilyet and Sister Leliana…but I think that what will matter the most to our Mages, and our Templars, and the faithful, is what end you grant Anders. Few would know or truly care about whether he remains an abomination at the time of his judgment.”

Which seemed all the more pathetic, Ixchel thought. “Solas suggested bringing him to the Avvar without anyone knowing, too. But I don’t know that the Avvar will help us or him unless we deal with this dragon issue I mentioned.”

“And you do not think that you, myself, Solas, and Cole would be capable on our own?”

“It’s not just a dragon,” Ixchel said darkly. “It’s a god.”

Cassandra nearly jumped to her feet. “ _Another?_ ” she cried.

Ixchel couldn’t help her laugh.

“Then… Then…” Cassandra growled to herself. “Is there no way to bring the Avvar to us? What of the ones we sent to Tevinter?”

“Do they even _have_ an augur?” Ixchel wondered aloud. “They seemed like just a war party. I don’t know if—”

And then, Ixchel’s folly hit her like a missile. She collapsed onto the floor, face in her hands again. “Gods above and below!” she moaned into the ground. “I’m so _stupid!”_ She shoved herself up and spun to face the Seeker on her knees. She choked on her own breath as she fumbled to grab Cassandra’s arms and shake her. “Cassandra, you’re a genius!”

Ixchel swayed; her face was unbearably hot, and the sheer relief of her realization had unleashed the floodgates of her tears. Cassandra grabbed her in return and tried to hold her steady. “Are these…happy tears?” she guessed awkwardly.

“Yes.” Ixchel blubbered a little as she sank back onto her haunches. She wiped her face on her shoulder and gasped. “Cassandra—we already _have_ an Avvar augur. _Here!_ In Skyhold!”

“We do?”

Ixchel nodded vehemently. “He took care of Amarok for me,” she said, “and I think he goes out on missions with Neria? Maybe? And Bull knows him. But _whatever_ , we have him!” A sigh that was half of a sob ripped from her chest. “I’m so glad I talked to you first.”

“Said no one ever,” Cassandra muttered.

“No, really,” Ixchel insisted. She gave Cassandra a wide-eyed look. “I was so scared… But I trusted you. And more than just standing by me, you gave me a solution.”

Cassandra’s cheeks darkened. “Well… Partially. You have also given _me_ a problem.” She cleared her throat. “That is, if I am indeed selected for the Sunburst Throne.”

Ixchel’s eyes narrowed, and she tightened her grip on Cassandra. “They’d be fools not to.”

But she couldn’t maintain her straight face for long. She released her friend and lay back on the cool stone floor of her war room. The roots of a mighty tree, which had long ago been fashioned into a chandelier, spread out above her like dormant lyrium veins. Looking upon it, for a moment, Ixchel allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Did you fear… What did you fear?” Cassandra asked quietly.

“That you would insist that both Anders and Justice had to die,” Ixchel replied, still staring at the ceiling. “That just by my doubt, you would say that I… I don’t know. Agreed with an extremist… And I wouldn’t be in a good position, even with myself, to disregard your point of view. It’s a valid one. And it’s one that I’m certain everyone else I’m about to speak to will have. I was just afraid I’d have to fight with you, and myself, and everyone… You’re…you’re my bell-weather, Cass. My touchstone.”

Cassandra’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned over a little to look Ixchel in the eye, and the Inquisitor saw that the Seeker was well and truly blushing now. “You truly think so?”

“Certainly,” Ixchel said with force. “And I’m certain I’m not the only one.”

Cass’s gaze became unfocused and glassy at her conviction. Without sitting up, Ixchel raised her hand and found Cass’s forearm to clasp. Words swelled up in her chest and got all tangled up in her throat, but Ixchel forced them out. “I will _never_ leave you to deal with problems I cause, alone,” she swore in a tight voice. “Never. I will _always_ have your back, Cassandra.”

Cassandra’s face softened. “Is that what you believe you did?”

Ixchel’s vision blurred with a new wave of tears. She was holding on to Cassandra with her arm that had never been amputated. She was lying on the ground, in tears, talking to Cassandra about right and wrong and justice and fear, and it was not the first time. No, not by far.

In fact, the last time she had seen Cassandra, before she ended her fight with a draught of deathroot, it had been in this exact position on the floor in a convent.

But Ixchel knew what had changed, for her—besides the fact that Cassandra was not wearing a ridiculous hat, at least. Now, there was no Despair to twist these words in Ixchel’s heart or to warp them in the remembering. There was fear and doubt, but without Despair, she and Solas and her friends could fend them off. There was guilt, but guilt had motivated her to be accountable.

Ixchel looked up at Cassandra.

“I know I did. And it won’t happen again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I will die for Cass.


	121. Rogasha'ghi'lan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Fen'elgar for beta'ing this chapter :)
> 
> 2/10/21

Cassandra considered her pensively. “I know you won’t,” she said. She pulled on Ixchel’s hand. “Come, then. This may not be as impossible as you feared, but it will not be easy, either.”

Ixchel allowed Cassandra to help her to her feet, and after taking a moment to wipe her face, they moved together to the head of the war table. As they came up with a plan, Ixchel was suddenly struck with the fear that she had taken Amund’s aide for granted. But he had raised Amarok for her, after all, and she hoped that the Sky Watcher respected her both for her leadership and her respect of Avvar customs—despite being a Lowlander. At the very least, she hoped that the augur’s respect for Spirits would spur him to help Justice.

Over the next half hour of planning, Ixchel was exceedingly grateful that she had thought to begin moving her resources around prior to leaving for Redcliffe. At the same time, she wished there was more for her to discuss. With the logistics out of the way, all that remained was the actual hard part.

Then, as Ixchel scribbled down some final notes, the Seeker added another concern to Ixchel’s swiftly growing mountain of fears:

“What if… Ixchel, what if his desire to face judgment is _because_ of Justice’s influence?” she asked from the windows, where she had taken up a contemplative vigil.

The Inquisitor stared down at the map between her hands.

“What if he no longer wishes to be punished, after you have seen them separated?”

“It’s too late to turn back,” Ixchel replied, clenching her fists. “But…in the end… It’s not my decision. Anders has not wronged me personally. It’s the Mages. It’s Kirkwall. It’s his friends. They’re the one who deserve to decide his fate. And… I couldn’t look Varric in the eye if…”

Cassandra returned to Ixchel’s side and rested her hip against the table. She crossed her arms. “You do realize we chose you to make these kinds of decisions.”

“Cassandra,” Ixchel said grimly, “You didn’t choose me to make these decisions. You chose me to know who should make them. Because if I make certain decisions all on my own, I will be seen even more like a rising despot. Celene, the banns—they will unite and force us to disband as soon as Corypheus falls.”

The Seeker ground her teeth as she considered this. Then, she ducked her head and gave a growling sigh. “You speak from experience.”

Ixchel nodded. “I have an army at my disposal as loyal as any country’s, and I owe my allegiance to no one. And as you say, I am torching every tradition I come across. Orlais was already primed to believe I was coming after Celene’s crown.”

“What if they all want a piece? Each with their own brand of justice?” Cassandra prodded, leaning closer. When Ixchel looked up at her, she recognized that the Seeker’s combative tone wasn’t backed by an expression of disapproval. She was concerned—just as concerned as Ixchel, for she clearly realized the stakes. “Starkhaven is already trying to annex Kirkwall… Can you imagine…?”

“I can,” Ixchel said. “That’s why we might consider ourselves lucky to have the future Viscount of Kirkwall to advise us.”

“Viscount?” Cassandra frowned. “But the Champion is in—”

At Ixchel’s sudden laugh, Cassandra’s eyebrows rocketed to her hairline. “No!” she exclaimed. “Truly? _Varric?!”_

“Can you imagine anyone serving Kirkwall better?” Ixchel asked with a small, melancholy smile as she remembered letters Varric had sent her over the years after the Inquisition disbanded. She straightened up a little after a moment. “But we’re also lucky that we have the leader of the Free Mages, as well as a Loyalist First Enchanter, all within our ranks. For now, we’ll start with Varric, Vivienne, and Fiona.”

Cassandra stared at her. “Are you certain you wish to tell Lady Vivienne of what you have planned?”

“Yes,” Ixchel said, but it was obvious from Cassandra’s expression that the Inquisitor still had not gotten any better at lying. She looked back down at the maps. “I’m certain that I want to tell her. I’m not certain I want her to know, if that makes sense.”

“I must admit, your friendship has confounded me,” the Seeker grumbled. “She is strictly against reforms, except for ones that elevate her status.”

Ixchel chewed on that for a moment, then shook her head. “That’s a little unfair,” she said slowly. “Vivienne wants mages to be safe, and she knew exactly how to make that happen in the system as it stood. She didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly, so she put herself into positions to be the one making decisions.”

Cassandra snorted. “You’re as charitable as a Revered Mother,” she offered, and Ixchel wasn’t sure it was intended as a compliment. “I hope that she looks at you with such—such patience.”

“The only thing I think we’ll truly disagree on is separating Justice and Anders,” Ixchel said, flicking at some charcoal dust on the back of her hand. “Of anyone, Vivienne, I think, is most likely to believe in a stark divide between good Spirits and malicious Demons. She’s devout. And that’s an academic subject that’s been ingrained in Circle lore for ages. But…ideally, judging Anders on his own should be something that pleases mages of all factions, Templars, and lay people alike. Probably won’t please the Chantry, though.”

The Seeker sighed and made for the door. As she passed the Inquisitor, Cassandra placed a hand on her shoulder. “You should know that I still am not certain if I agree with your…nontraditional views about Spirits,” she said. “But we are agreed on matters of _cruelty_ , and the need for cooler heads to prevail. I am trying to be one of them.”

Ixchel looked her in the eye and nodded. “I do think you have a cool head, Cass,” she said. “You just have something burning in here.” She touched her own chest, above her heart. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Cassandra’s cheeks glowed a little. “I shall fetch Varric and Dorian, then, as you requested.”

As the door closed behind Cassandra, Ixchel returned to the war table and looked down at her maps and tried to imagine where in the Korcari Wilds Anders had been headed. She knew that Morrigan’s childhood home wasn’t far from Ostagar, but Ixchel had never had a reason to venture that far south. At least she figured that _wherever_ she took Anders now, it would be in the opposite direction.

But what did Flemeth want? Why did she want the Old God soul? Why did she want to help Justice and Anders separate? How did she find Ixchel in the snow after Haven—how did she know to come _then?_

Was this all some contrived scenario to get to Ixchel?

_What did Mythal want?_

It wasn’t long before a short, staccato rap on the door drew her mind back to the topic at hand. Ixchel turned and stood up straight to face them. She knew she had alarmed Varric and Dorian with her abrupt manner, and it was likely plain to see on her face that she had been crying not so long ago. But she did her best to offer them a reassuring smile.

“I don’t mean to worry you,” she told them, “at least, not about me or Solas or Cole. But I do want to talk to you about something serious.”

Dorian approached her slowly as he looked her over from head to toe in a clear attempt to determine her mental state. Varric remained by the door, with Cassandra. And it was the tired— _beyond_ tired—look in his eye that made Ixchel’s insides shrivel up with guilt. She immediately recognized that he somehow had known what she was about to talk about. Perhaps Aveline had warned him that Anders was moving south. Maybe Anders himself had reached out, or one of Varric’s contacts has seen him on the road…?

“I found Anders,” she said as she held his gaze. “Solas and Cole are with him now.”

Dorian stopped in his tracks, stunned. “The abomination?”

But Varric was silent; Ixchel almost didn’t hear the long, troubled breath that he released. But he seemed to shrink. “No kidding.”

“I’m not,” she agreed solemnly.

Varric closed his eyes, chin dipping slightly to the side. “Fuck,” he seemed to say, without moving his lips. “Well, Seeker. Your Inquisition worked. Congratulations.”

Cassandra’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t speak. She looked at Ixchel pointedly, but the Inquisitor hesitated upon seeing how affected Varric was by this news.

A beat passed; then the dwarf looked up at her again. “Wait. You can’t seriously be asking me what to do with him,” he croaked in disbelief.

Ixchel’s lips parted. “Who would I be if I didn’t give you the opportunity to speak your mind, Varric?” she asked as evenly as she could manage. “You’re my friend, and as I understand it, he hurt you. He repaid everything you’d ever done to help him by attacking your home and making it the epicenter of the Mage-Templar war.”

Varric winced and looked down at his feet, but Ixchel pressed on.

“And you spent a _decade_ trying to fix Kirkwall with Hawke. Why wouldn’t I listen to you on this?”

Varric pushed back his hair slowly, then shook his head and cursed. “I don’t want a thing to do with it,” he said flatly.

Ixchel bit her lip and then tried to shush Cassandra with her eyes, for the Seeker had opened her mouth to protest. But it was too late; it seemed to ignite Varric’s ire. “What. He was my friend?” Varric guessed. “Well, so are you. And I _told_ you, _Inquisitor_ , I don’t envy you, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the one making your decisions. So I’d appreciate it if you left me out of this.”

Ixchel held up her hands, palms forward to fend off his ire. But when his glare only intensified—this time, directed at the green light in her hand—she dropped them. “I’m not asking you to make the decision,” she said. “I just—”

The author threw down his hand in her direction as though to bat her away, and he turned bodily so he wouldn’t have to look at her. Her heart plummeted.

Cassandra’s face darkened with more concern than agitation now, and she raised a hand as though to reach for Varric’s shoulder, but he took a step and put more distance between them. The Seeker pulled her hand back to her chest and gave Ixchel a helpless look.

“Alright,” Ixchel said wearily. “Alright. Well.”

She tried to summon her most businesslike tone as she continued with her agenda. But it was difficult in a way that she had not anticipated, and perhaps she realized now that she had been hoping Varric might be more invested in Anders’ fate. Maybe she had hoped to gain insight as to whether the mage truly did want to die, or if there might be some way to help him escape what fate had in store. Something akin to guilt had pooled in her gut, but she beat it back. She was the Inquisitor, she was the visionary, and she was alone as ever in her views among these Andrastians.

All that mattered was that she had offered Varric the chance to give input, if he had any. That was what he was owed, and that was all she had delivered upon.

“Then I will go ahead and initiate talks with Fiona and Vivienne about Anders’ fate. And probably the entire nation-state of Kirkwall. And Sebastian.” She sighed. “That will likely keep me busy for…some time. But our job is still to save the world from Corypheus, and with that said, we will need to leave for the Frostback Basin sooner than later. I’m worried that Corypheus will try to replace his red lyrium dragon with one from Avvar legend, said to be locked beneath the mountains near Stone-Bear Hold.”

She gestured for them to come over to the table, and she reached for several tokens to indicate movements she and Cassandra had planned. Varric heaved one last, heavy breath before joining her there, and Ixchel—like Cassandra, felt compelled to put her hand on his shoulder, to give comfort. But she kept her hands to herself.

“We won’t be able to navigate the Basin, avoid Venatori and Red Templars and hostile tribes, without the help of Stone-Bear Hold. As you know, I have some experience with Avvar customs and legends. We’ll need to prove that, despite being lowlanders, we respect their way of life.” She looked pointedly at Dorian. “As alien and inefficient as it may seem.”

He put a hand on his chest, falsely affronted.

She didn’t smile. “You might be surprised, or maybe not, to find that many of my views about Spirits and magic are from the Avvar. They have no Templars, and their mages are routinely possessed, and they communicate often with Spirits. In some ways, I think they’re the closest connection we have to the customs of Elvhenan. Keep that in mind when you judge them for flirting with danger or say they’re fraternizing with Demons. They’ve been living like this for thousands of years, just fine.”

Dorian gave her a searching look, and she knew that he wanted to ask her what in her past life had led her to this knowledge. Thankfully, he refrained in Varric’s presence. “You know me,” he said in a light tone. “I’m happy to challenge conventions of all sorts. I can appreciate that.”

She knew that whatever he truly believed, it wasn't quite as simple as he had put it, but she trusted that it wasn't so serious a concern that he might bring it up now. Thus reassured, Ixchel turned to Varric, who gave her a weak attempt at a smirk. “If you trust the Seeker to handle such heresy, I’m sure I can behave.” He shrugged. “I’ve been thinking of adding an Avvar character to my roster, anyway. It’ll be good research.”

Ixchel released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “It’s an ice dragon,” she said. “It’s a jungle, but it’ll get cold, I’m sure.”

“Gotcha,” Varric said. “And, hey—about the Red Jennies. A little bird told me that there are a few pricks out in Amaranthine that’re making some trouble for alienages back east, and King Alistair might need some unaffiliated help telling them off of it. Might be a good chance to show Buttercup a different side of things. I’m no good with all this magic shit, but giving a noble a headache? That’s where I excel.”

“Buttercup?” Cassandra asked, frowning.

Ixchel frowned too, though not at Varric's nickname for Sera, but at the idea itself. “How long?” she asked.

“Oh, maybe a week. The Jennies and my people can set things in motion, we can clean up when we get there, and be right back.”

And there it was: Varric’s escape plan. Of course he had had one all along. It just hadn’t included her.

She couldn’t say she was entirely jealous, but she understood.

“Let’s talk before you head out,” she said. “But you have my approval. Likely you’ll need to travel straight to the Basin after you’re done, but maybe we’ll be held up here. We’ll keep you informed.”

As good as Varric was at bluffing, his relief was plain to see. He seemed like he was about to say something, but he thought better of it and turned to leave.

Cassandra pursed her lips and stared daggers into his back until the door had closed behind him. Before she could explode, Dorian stepped closer. “So, an ice dragon.”

“It’s actually an Avvar god of war, in the form of an ice dragon,” Ixchel said. “It was summoned by an Avvar cult to defeat the Lowlanders eight-hundred years ago—conveniently enough, right as a Blight was starting. Emperor Drakon sent the last Inquisitor to take care of Hakkon while the rest of Orlais dealt with the Archdemon.”

Whatever anger Cassandra had mustered at Varric’s response to Anders’ situation melted away as she was swept up with the story. “And the Inquisitor was a mage from the Dales,” she informed Dorian, “who is now trapped with this dragon god. And it may not only be Corypheus trying to set the beast free.”

“Excuse me,” Dorian said. “The Orlesian Inquisitor was an elf, and a mage?”

Ixchel chuckled. “There are also trolls, and wyverns all over the place, and Tevinter ruins. It’ll be a romp.”

Dorian cursed. “I’m certain it will seem positively delightful after you singlehandedly reignite the feud between the Southern Mages,” he admitted. “Are you _certain_ you want to do that?”

“It is her job,” Cassandra reminded him. Ixchel gestured at Cassandra in dismissive agreement. But the Seeker raised an eyebrow at her. “You did leave something out, Ixchel.”

Ixchel shrugged slowly. “Before Anders is sent off to die, or whatever it is they decide,” she told Dorian, “we’re going to try and separate him from Justice. There’s an Avvar ritual, and Justice is apparently willing.”

Dorian’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, but I can’t let that slide. You just _happen_ to know of a ritual to peacefully reverse possession? When Templars have spent centuries killing child mages for _sniffling_ too loudly after their Harrowings?”

“And there’s a way to break Tranquility,” Ixchel said flatly. “Yes. I am aware of the vast repercussions these two revelations may have on your societies.”

Beyond horrified, Dorian was left pale and grave as he looked at Ixchel. “Maker’s breath,” he said darkly. “If I count the Tranquil in Tevinter alone…”

Cassandra’s head jerked in surprise. “I’m surprised they use the Rite in your homeland at all.”

“It’s a sentence handed down by the Magisterium. ‘Abuse of magic’ has so many convenient interpretations,” Dorian replied. Cassandra blanched, but Dorian did not see, for he had not stopped looking at Ixchel. “I understand the Qunari have an even worse version—a consequence of terrible alchemy. But wielding such things as a punishment…with no hope of reversal… Of course it would find _widespread_ use to control the masses, Seeker.”

He reached for Ixchel and took her by both shoulders. “You’re planning on telling _Madame de Fer_ that you’d like to go out of your way and save the very Spirit who drove a man to blow up a Chantry? You’re certain of that?”

Ixchel took a deep breath. “Yes.”

Dorian’s dark, glittering eyes searched her face, and he seemed to see that she was sufficiently aware of the difficult task ahead of her. He whistled slowly. “Perhaps Varric is right to run away from Skyhold before it turns into a battlefield,” he sighed. “Wait—is that why you have kept the boy—Cole, away?”

Ixchel gritted her teeth. She hadn’t even considered that—and she was suddenly glad that Cole wasn’t present, no matter how much she missed his comfort. If she were to rekindle this particular conflict, she didn’t think either faction was above reprisals.

“Cole is helping Anders and Justice as only he can,” she said. “But yes, I want to tell Vivienne. It’s why I’m telling you, too. I’ve been fighting for a world without oppression, and Spirits are included in that, too. I’d rather not destroy two lives if I could avoid it.”

“But Spirits—most are amorphous constructs of the Fade,” Dorian said.

Ixchel fixed him with a long look.

“Most,” he protested. “There’s no harm putting them to constructive use, and most mages back home treat them well.”

“Have you considered that by enslaving Spirits and culling them from the Fade constantly, you might be preventing them from forming into more concrete things like Compassion and Faith?” she asked pointedly. “This is why I am insisting on separating Anders and Justice. Apparently, Spirits trapped in mortal bodies can’t reform when they’re killed, and I do not want to lose a Spirit of Justice.”

Dorian’s grip tightened on her shoulders, but his eyes had gone distant. “Is that so? What a fascinating prospect. One wonders if that might have been a way to defeat the Nightmare, then. Of course, one would need a willing sacrifice…”

Ixchel gave him a gentle push. “I’d rather not contemplate _more_ death at the moment.”

“Of course,” he relented. He released her, then looked between her and Cassandra. “So now you will speak with Vivienne and Fiona?” he asked.

“I believe I should seek out the Commander,” Cassandra said, raising her chin in Ixchel’s direction. “Forgive me—but I do not think you would be the best messenger for this. About Anders, or about Samson.”

Ixchel bit her lip but nodded. “Whatever you think is best, Cass,” she said. “I’ll try to keep things contained with the mages… Dorian, do you think if you stayed…?”

Dorian’s brow creased, and he gave her a pitying smile. “I’m afraid my mere presence would serve to increase tensions in this meeting you have planned, Ixchel. Even if I were rendered dumb and mute—and I’m not sure I could achieve that, given the topic.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” she said quietly. “Then… I’d like to speak to Vivienne alone, first. If you would fetch her.”

Cassandra had been moving in the direction of the door, but she turned back suddenly. “Are you certain?” she asked.

Ixchel slid an arm behind Dorian’s back to give him a gentle hug, then met Cassandra’s eyes. “I am,” she said.


	122. Jewel Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/11/21

Though they were seldom used, the war room did feature several nice chairs. Ixchel took two of these and set them beside the table to await Vivienne, though she waited for the Enchanter to arrive before she sat.

When the knock came, she opened the door for Vivienne and ushered her in.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Vivienne,” she said earnestly. “You must have only just returned, I imagine.”

“Indeed,” said the Enchanter. They took their seats, and Vivienne crossed one leg over the other and folded her hands primly on her knees. “I must thank you for your understanding, Inquisitor, especially when you have had so much to contend with. I can’t say that I regret my absence.”

“Of course not. I understand,” Ixchel said. “Though I’m glad to have you back.”

Vivienne gave her a small smile and glanced over the figures on the war table. “It seems that it’s just in time. You require my counsel?”

“In a very delicate matter,” Ixchel said.

A small dimple appeared in Vivienne’s cheek—the only sign of how she might have interpreted Ixchel’s words. The Inquisitor had the feeling that Vivienne already understood that a disagreement might be brewing.

“Very well,” said the Enchanter. “I am all ears, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel looked down at her own hands. “I hope this goes without saying—”

“Such preface isn’t required with me, though I do appreciate it,” Vivienne said, and now she directed a small smile at Ixchel. “We have been through too much now to doubt one another.”

Ixchel tried to relax a little, then. “Alright.”

Vivienne looked back out in the direction of the window and waited for Ixchel to begin.

There was no way to soften this. “I have found Anders, and he is in Inquisition custody. He wants to face the consequences of his actions, and I am asking you, as the leader of the Loyalist Mages, and Fiona, as the leader of the Free Mages, to come together to decide his fate.”

Vivienne’s mastery over herself was unmatched, Ixchel knew, but she was still in awe at how utterly unphased the woman was at the news. Vivienne continued to stare at the window, unbothered; her face remained the picture of easy poise and grace.

“That should be simple enough,” said the Enchanter. “Though they chose to vote directly in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks on Kirkwall, I do respect that they did not _intend_ to align themselves with the abomination’s actions. They will likely relish the opportunity to prove to the world that they and he are not one and the same.”

Ixchel did not immediately speak, so Vivienne looked back at the Inquisitor. “I do fear the damage has been done, however. By voting when they did, my colleagues all but declared war on the ordinary people of Thedas. A war in which mages are outnumbered a hundred to one.”

“I understand,” Ixchel said. “I hope you’re right. Fiona seems like a reasonable person.”

“Reasonable, until faced with a mob,” Vivienne said dryly. “But in this way, we might have an opportunity to appease the malcontents—and an opportunity to prove to those who might oppose any reforms that we are not all the same.”

“That’s my hope.” Ixchel reached for her hair and touched the Ardent Blossoms there. “So that gets us into the second issue, Vivienne… You must have heard, by now, that there is a cure for Tranquility?”

For the first time, Vivienne’s careful mask cracked, and Ixchel saw a shadow fall across her face. It was akin to what Ixchel had seen at the Ghislain Estate, in the wake of Bastien’s passing: grief.

“We have all heard,” the Enchanter said coldly. “It is what spurred the vote. Though as I understand it, the cure is possibly a greater tragedy than the Rite itself.”

Ixchel removed one of the Ardent Blossoms and turned it over in her hand. It twinkled in the green light of the Anchor. “It _might_ depend on how long the Tranquility has lasted. Emotional control is taught to children, and it can be lost if unpracticed. And that is a dangerous place to be, with or without magic.”

“And to explore that would require experimentation that may inflict untold suffering,” Viviene said. “Those poor souls—they suffered enough in life. And they are not in a state to ask them their consent now. I would be surprised if Fiona disagreed with me.” She gave Ixchel a wary look. “I do recall that you mentioned this cure to Samson, regarding Maddox.”

Ixchel nodded slowly. “And I haven’t gone through with it, because of what you mentioned,” she said. “But I anticipate it’s one of the options for what Anders fate should be, and…. I guess… I just want to hear your thoughts on it.”

“One does not throw away a tool because it was misused,” Vivienne said. “Serial murders might be thrown in jail, deprived of their weapons and access to innocent. But a mage is never without her weapons, and thus—Tranquility jails the traitorous mind. It calms the tormented. It appears so much more merciful than slaughter or solitary confinement…yet that apparently is not the case.”

She drew her hands closer in her lap, fingers curled tightly around her fist. “And, of course, that is not how it has been used. You ask me to think of a world in which a _foolish_ apprentice, made Tranquil for a foolish, girlish mistake, might be saved if her Enchanter argues her case—perhaps within days, or weeks, of the unjust Rite. I have thought of this world, Inquisitor. I have thought of this world often.”

Ixchel knew better than to let sympathy show too plainly on her face when it came to the Iron Lady. But it was difficult to quell it when she recognized instantly the personal nature of Vivienne’s story. Ixchel had never been in a southern Circle, but if they were _anything_ like those in Tevinter, she would not have been surprised to learn that Vivienne had had many apprentices in her time as First Enchanter. Not to mention the many, many mages she would have had in her charge in some way or another.

And that meant many, many Tranquil.

Vivienne leveled a hard stare on Ixchel. “Is the Seeker aware of this, I wonder?”

“Cassandra has learned, recently, that the Seekers have been aware of the Cure for centuries,” Ixchel said. “It is something she has been grappling with. In fact, part of the secret initiation of the Seekers is that they become temporarily Tranquil. ”

All at once, Vivienne’s sharp edges softened. She looked back at the window, hands smoothing flat on her knees again. “Is that so?” she said under her breath.

For a long moment, the women were silent. Ixchel could almost hear the calculations Vivienne was undoubtedly running in her mind. But finally, the Enchanter lowered her chin, smiling thinly to herself, and said, “Then perhaps it is time for the Circle and the Rebels to come together, without the interference of a Divine or the Templars. I wonder if you know what you may unleash on Thedas, my dear.”

“See, about that,” Ixchel said warily. “Vivienne… I realize that mages have an added tool that not everyone has access to. That doesn’t mean they should be punished for it. Nor should they necessarily be feared.”

Vivienne’s smile widened into a genuine smirk. “The only reason I will not disabuse you of such a belief is because the whispers do seem to believe Cassandra will be made Divine.” She tapped her long nails on her knee, then shook her head. “Fear is a tool, Inquisitor. You cannot control whether you are feared, or not, so you might as well use it—lest it be used against you.”

Ixchel chuckled a little. “Oh, I’m aware. But I think there’s a difference between being feared because you have the power to demand respect, and being feared because you can cause harm.”

“I suppose you hope that will be the difference beween our land, and Tevinter,” Vivienne said dryly.

“No.” Ixchel shook her head. “I hope that someday, this will be one of the things we share. If we all work together, this world is possible, Vivienne,” Ixchel added quietly. “We’re all fighting for safety and dignity, in the end.”

“You handle the foundation, Inquisitor, and I shall handle the heights.” Vivienne gave her a somewhat predatory smile, but Ixchel knew by now that it was not unkind. “By foundation, of course, I mean destroying the would-be gods at our doorstep.”

Ixchel immediately understood that Vivienne was excusing herself, and she knew better than to deny the Enchanter. But Ixchel could hear Cassandra in the back of her head growling: _Aren’t you forgetting something?_

And Ixchel wasn’t forgetting. She wished she could.

“There’s one more thing,” she said quietly, then cleared her throat. “There is an Avvar ritual that separates willing Spirits from their possessed hosts. I insist that the Spirit of Justice within Anders is released before he faces his judgment.”

The change in Vivienne was immediate, and though it was completely expected—it did not hurt any less. “Will you add it to your menagerie of pet demons?” the Enchanter asked coldly. “My dear—”

Ixchel curled her fist to hide the flaring of the Anchor in her palm, but it burned all the brighter. She glared down at the traitorous appendage, then tucked it under her armpit as she crossed her arms. But the sight had stolen the air from Vivienne’s lungs, it seemed; lips parted, her tongue fell still as she considered the young Inquisitor.

“Go on, Vivienne,” Ixchel said quietly.

“You are not a mage,” the Enchanter said. Her tone had grown slightly warmer, as though revealing a gift. “You have not been Harrowed. You hve never had a Demon threaten to possess you. While there are certainly kindly Spirits, the more one draws them across the Veil, the more they wish to stay.”

Ixchel considered this. “Did Envy not attempt to possess me, at Therinfal Redoubt?” she mused. “Has Cole not manifested himself a body of his own, without possession?”

Vivienne’s eyes flickered across the Inquisitor’s face, but she did not immediately respond.

“Doesn’t the threat of Tranquility hover on every Templar’s lips—in the mind of a mage?” Ixchel asked next. “Doesn’t the fear of the maleficar hang over _every_ mage’s head? You say that there are just as many good, or ineffectual, or apathetic Templars in their ranks as there are men in the world. There are as many uninterested, kind, scholarly mages as there are in a Chantry hall on an Oathday. But for some reason—it _is_ all Spirits who are a threat.”

“Mages, Templars, Chevaliers—they are _people, Inquisitor,_ ” Vivienne insisted. “Spirits are not. The Ghost of the Spire is evidence enough that they never will be.”

“Vivienne, my _friend_ ,” Ixchel said, each word heavy and distinct on her lips as she met Vivienne’s gaze. “I am neither inexperienced nor unobservant. I would ask that you not discount my experience, nor the historical precedent that I have uncovered, simply because it contradicts what you were taught.” She did not release Vivienne from her attention, even as Ixchel took a deep, steadying breath. Her heart pounded in her chest as she chose each word carefully, words that in retrospect may have better served Cassandra. But they were the truth, and Ixchel would wield no other weapon in this battle of wills. “I don’t deny your experience, or what you were taught. Can you please try to accept _my_ experience, in _addition_ to your training? It need not replace it.”

“And is this experience dreamed up in the Fade with our noble hedge mage, or perhaps the barbarian witch?” Vivienne asked delicately.

Ixchel tilted her head. “No. The experience is written on my face in blood and ink.”

She watched for the exact moment in which Vivienne’s eyes, so practiced at looking past the scars, blurring the vallaslin into obscurity on her face, snapped into focus. She could always see it plainly when her friends suddenly remembered that her face was a ravaged battlefield of its own—when they were reminded that her steadfast resolve, her unflinching bravery, and her unfailing camaraderie were carved into her flesh by adversity.

Ixchel would never have gone so far as to expect Vivienne to blanch or recoil. She somewhat expected an apology. But Vivienne did not offer either, and that, perhaps, was the best indication that Ixchel had gotten through.

The Enchanter looked unflinchingly on Ixchel’s face and did not allow herself to glance away even for a moment.

“If you don’t want to take my word for it, you can come with me,” Ixchel said, almost to her own surprise. “There are three things I would show you, Vivienne. But I just…need you to see that they aren’t threatening everything you’ve built. They could… _add_.”

The Iron Lady lay an elegant hand on the table between them, but she did not tear her gaze away from Ixchel. “I may take you up on your offer,” Vivienne said, “though I should make it clear that my presence…is not because I do not trust you, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor. Inquisitor. Inquisitor. Somehow, Ixchel had been placed back at arm’s length. Yet at the same time, it was so unlike Vivienne to offer any equivocations or assurances—certainly, that had to mean something.

“I understand,” Ixchel said, though there was much she wished she could ask.

“In the meantime, I believe you should speak to Fiona in private, lest she think I have sunk my hooks in you.”

“Right away,” Ixchel agreed.

Vivienne stood, and Ixchel followed. But as they neared the door, Ixchel reached for Vivienne. She stopped just shy of touching her.

“Thank you, Vivienne.”

“I would once have called you naive to thank me before I have delivered anything,” the Enchanter mused in a softer voice. She lay a hand on the door. “Let alone _promised_ anything. But I admire—and value—your trust, Ixchel.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel walked Vivienne out to Josephine’s office, where she knew she could reliably find a runner. “Would you have a moment to fetch Enchanter Fiona for me, please?” she asked.

The messenger looked at Vivienne’s retreating back, then at Josephine, then back at the Inquisitor. “To meet in the war room?”

“Yes.”

“It shall be done.”

As the door closed behind the messenger, Ixchel deflated a bit and came to lean on Josephine’s desk. “Lady Montilyet, I am so sorry for all the work I’m about to have you do,” she said wearily. “When you have the time, would you ask Cassandra to fill you in?”

Josephine’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh no. If you are trusting this to Cassandra—I’m certain I will have my work cut out for me.”

“Or, it’s so simple, that I trust Cassandra to relay it to you,” Ixchel suggested.

“You are requesting audiences with Madame de Fer _and_ Former Grand Enchanter Fiona. It cannot be simple,” Josephine deadpanned. “I will speak with Cassandra at once.”

“Has there been any word from Wycome?” Ixchel asked; her fingers tightened on the lip of the desk beneath her, for she wasn’t certain if her legs would support her should Josephine procure some missive for her.

But her Ambassador shook her head. “You will be the first to know when it arrives,” she said. “For what it is worth, Leliana has not heard of any reprisals against the elves in the area, and for now, I believe that’s the best we can hope for. Performing an investigation while maintaining the guise of nobility is…an undertaking.”

“I understand,” Ixchel said. “Thank you. And sorry, again.”

“It is your job, unfortunately, and it is also mine,” Josephine said with a smirk. “At least _I_ am getting paid.”

Ixchel was in good enough humor that she managed to pout at Josephine. Her Ambassador chuckled.

“By the way, several of the garments you requested have arrived. They are in your quarters.”

Ixchel made a show of perking up at the thought of her gifts. “The Nevarran ones?”

“And some from Antiva and Amaranthine.”

Ixchel slapped her hand against her heart in an exaggerated swoon. “You’re the best, Josie.”

The Ambassador stood from her desk and swept some fresh papers onto her writing board. “I try,” she said lightly. “Good luck, Inquisitor. Try not to start a war in our dining hall.”

Ixchel returned to the war room and took a moment to relax. The hardest of the hard parts had passed, she hoped. As she leaned against the iron and glass window frame and looked out at the Frostback mountains in the last light of day. She wondered how far Solas had traveled by now. She had been diligent with her wards for a few days—perhaps she could allow herself to call to him in the Fade, even just for a short visit, to tell him what had transpired.

Fiona entered quietly, without knocking, and Ixchel turned to find the former Grand Enchanter standing in front of the closed door, watching her. Ixchel had rarely had the chance to be alone with Fiona, and Fiona likewise seemed to understand the opportunity she had to take stock of the Inquisitor. Her assessment, however, remained unknown to Ixchel. Unlike Vivienne or an Orlesian bard, Fiona did not put on a shiny mask of pleasantries and cool confidence. Neither did she appear serene in the face of such a formidable figurehead, as ambitious Chantry sisters might. Instead, Fiona gazed upon Ixchel with a stoic frown and did not revise her expression even after she had looked Ixchel over.

The Inquisitor gestured for her to take a seat at the table with her.

“To what do I owe this audience, Inquisitor?” Fiona asked as she drew further into the room.

“‘Owe’?” Ixchel repeated. “Let’s be careful with language here, my lady. You don’t owe me. This meeting is entirely a kindness I feel that you deserve. I have come across Anders, and he would like to face judgment for what he’s done in Kirkwall.”

Fiona sat and kept her eyes on her knees as she drank in Ixchel’s words. “Do you tell me this so that we can prepare for reprisals?” she asked. “No matter if the abomination is brought to justice, some will see his neutralization as a condemnation of the Mage Rebellion and act accordingly.”

“I tell you this so that you have a chance to decide what judgment is best,” Ixchel told the former Grand Enchanter. “I don’t believe it’s actually my justice to serve, and I’m not about to leave the decision up to the Chantry or to the Loyalists alone.”

Fiona’s shoulders straightened, and now she turned her scrutinizing gaze fully upon Ixchel. “The judgment was included in the conditions of our secession from the Circles. Anders must be executed. That is without question.”

The woman’s lips twitched a little at Ixchel’s surprise. “Few but the Divine seem to have actually read our statements,” she said wryly. “We voted in the aftermath of the tragedy in Kirkwall, for fear that every Circle would be Annulled. It was intended to be a large enough that all eyes would be drawn to it—and our declaration. Fate rarely takes you down the paths you intend, as you are no doubt well aware.”

“It’s difficult to control how others react to you, I’ve found,” Ixchel said with a hesitant smile.

“I have witnessed it here, as you try to mold the world with your shadow alone.” Fiona clasped her hands. “I’ve been a Grey Warden, Grand Enchanter, leader of a rebellion…and now I am none of those things. And when I look at you, I find it in myself to be grateful.”

Ixchel understood the sentiment, though it still stung a little. “At least we are in good company.”

“Are we?” Fiona gave her a wry smile that drew out the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. “But I presume that you do not wish to discuss the conflicts amongst the mages—”

“Well, why not?” Ixchel shrugged. “Is that not why I’m asking you and Vivienne to work together on Anders?”

“There is little _work_ in murder. You and I are well-versed in it.”

Ixchel looked down at her sparkling palm again and rubbed it thoughtfully. “So… It’s not just _that_ … I am going to see that he and Justice are separated before anything happens to them,” she said. “I know a way. An Avvar ritual. These are the things I truly wish to discuss, Fiona. What the future looks like, for the Mages of Thedas, and the Spirits.”

The older elven woman gave a small, breathy laugh. “If you do intend to read the document, it is laid out in there. As it is also, somewhat unfortunately, detailed in the rogue apostate’s manifesto.” She shook her head. “You have said it yourself, Inquisitor, in the early days of the Inquisition. Rest assured that I believe we are rather aligned on this topic.”

“Even my views on Spirits?” Ixchel countered. “I am not _quite_ as forthcoming with those, after I noticed how quickly hands fly to their blades when one broaches the topic.”

“Oh, certainly.” Fiona tucked her chin, smiling to herself a little. “The Free Mages have been watching you with _rapt_ attention, Inquisitor. Most recently, I have learned from some of the newly-arrived Wardens what was planned at Adamant,” Fiona said. “It is not so out of character for Wardens, but in the eyes of most—blood magic, Demons? Heresy, and a crime against the natural law at the minimum. Yet you have drawn them into your ranks. Called them heroes.” Fiona raised an eyebrow at Ixchel. “That is not to mention that you keep a Spirit of Compassion as a close companion, and an _altus_ of the Tevinter Imperium…a Witch of the Wilds… And of course…there is Messere Solas, whom I’ve had the pleasure of coming to know over the last several months.”

Ixchel stared at her.

“We are quite content with you as our ally,” Fiona finished. “Yet we of course wonder what comes after the Elder One is defeated. We do not question your aid, or your motives, but we have been discussing this very topic since we left the Circles. The terrorist’s execution is a first step in proving to the Templars, the Chantry, and the lay people, that a Free Mage is not a terrorist, or a tyrant.”

“I must get my hands on this document,” Ixchel said, feeling more the fool as every moment passed.

“I can see to it at once, Inquisitor,” Fiona replied. “I did not want to presume to force such a political item upon you, or, if you had read it and found it unworthy…”

Ixchel shook her head quickly. “My lady, please feel free to pass on anything that you think should require my attention, and I will be certain to address it,” she urged. “You, and all the mages in Skyhold, are our guests and allies and, I hope, our friends. If it will educate me, or help me understand your motivations or your feelings… I would not pass up such an opportunity to learn.”

As she spoke, Fiona’s smile grew until she could not contain it. She looked at Ixchel warmly, and the younger elven woman immediately shrank, blushing, deeper into her chair. For Ixchel was stunned at the _affection_ in the former Grand Enchanter’s eyes—it was something she had only seen a few times before: when she had volunteered to go to the Conclave for Clan Lavellan and Deshanna had given her her blessing…and when Mythal had looked upon her and said, “You do the People proud.”

It must have been the closest thing to a mother’s pride Ixchel had ever seen.

“I wonder if your enemies realize that this is the most dangerous thing about you,” Fiona said. “Andraste help the one who would keep something hidden from a hound of the Dales, and may more people seek to understand the world so completely, with open hearts.”

Ixchel bit her lip, as though that might hold back the sudden wave of tears in her eyes. She swallowed hard. “I spoke to Vivienne,” she said, quickly, to get it all out before her composure failed. “I really, really believe she might be willing to compromise—” at Fiona’s dark glance, she hurried on “—in a way that will truly shift the paradigm going forward. So if she agrees, I’m going to take her to the splitting ritual, and I’m going to take her to the Avvar, show her societies that exist without fear of mages and magic and Spirits… Because I think that’s what holds her back—thinking that the lay people will never change their minds about you. But they will.”

Ixchel’s heart sank as Fiona simply shrugged. “I pray you are correct, Inquisitor.”

“Thanks,” Ixchel said glumly.

Fiona stood, but she did not immediately head for the door. Instead, she pressed her hand against her chest in the salute of the Inquisition. Her eyes were shining. “I have always believed that change could only come from an elf,” she said. "I did not expect it to come from so many, but I am glad to have been wrong."

Ixchel sucked in a shaky breath as she stood as well. “It’s exhausting to be right,” she retorted, but she tried to give Fiona a smile.

“There is one last thing I might ask, Inquisitor,” Fiona said as they walked to the door once more. “In Redcliffe, after we left, did you perhaps speak with King Alistair? Considering who you are… You are of an age…”

“Briefly, at Redcliffe,” Ixchel said. “But we have corresponded quite a bit, since then.”

Fiona looked up at the moon as it rose above the gaping hole in the walkway between the war room and Josephine’s office. “It’s just that… I knew his father, Maric, back when I was a Warden.” She paused. “I only wanted to know if he was happy.”

Ixchel considered that. “I don’t know,” she said. “He is certainly in good humor, but I think he always is.”

She noticed how Fiona smiled at that.

“His… father had such hopes for him,” Fiona murmured. “Don’t mind me, Inquisitor. The concerns of an old woman, nothing more.”

Ixchel didn’t get another word in before Fiona swept away, back in the direction of the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof!!! glad I got this over with and I think it turned out better than I had expected!


	123. Candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/14/20

Ixchel was preparing to retire for the night—alone, in her cold room that was far too large for one person—when there came a knock on her door. She figured that it was likely a messenger armed with the Free Mage's Declaration of Independence, so she was entirely unprepared to see Dorian standing there.

He was armed with a carafe of wine, a book, and a blanket. She recognized, too, that he was in his pajamas. Well, as close as he got to pajamas, because she also knew that he slept in the nude.

She cursed herself that her first reaction was to go tense, like a drawstring had been pulled down the length of her spine at the sight of him. There was a flicker of recognition and hurt on his face, fast enough that it was gone when she blinked, but she knew Dorian better than anyone else in the world, and she had seen it.

But she had remembered, in that moment, what it was like to try to open this door with one hand—

_Remembered that moment when she closed her eyes upon hearing the knock on the door. She had lost track of how long she had been in bed, cocooned in her blankets, but it was a sufficient enough time that she had become one with her mattress. She did not know who could be seeking an audience with her, anyway. If it were anyone who was courteous to knock, then it was either someone like Varric who would take the liberty of entering regardless, or it was a messenger or foot soldier and they would leave sooner or later—_

_“Inquisitor, my hands are full.”_

_Despite the warmth that had settled deep in her bones, the sound of Dorian’s voice ringing out from the crystal around her neck sent ice shooting through her blood. Her hand, which had been fisted in her hair, tightened further; her throat constricted as her nails tore at her scalp, but the pain brought her back to herself._

_Ixchel sluggishly extracted herself from the nest in her too-large bed and dragged a loosely-knit throw around her shoulders. Then she faced the stairs with the same dread as she had felt whenever she was about to enter the ballroom at Halamshiral. It was the fear that whenever she opened the door, anyone on the other side would immediately see past her masks and know that she was far too out of her depth._

_Every step was a battle won, she told herself, as she put one bare foot in front of the other. Her toes sank into the thick rugs, protected from the cold stone beneath, but still she felt it. By the time she reached the entrance to her quarters, she felt as slow and defeated as she did when facing a Despair Demon._

_She cracked open the door with her remaining hand and nearly let her blanket slip from her shoulders. She caught it awkwardly, then turned without looking at him._

_It was telling, perhaps, that he did not fill the air with bluster or poke at her obvious antisocial mood. Instead, he simply let the door fall closed behind him and walked up the stairs past her. She was far slower to ascend. It was always harder to go back up, after she’d come down. Today, she nearly stopped halfway to lay down right on the floor. But she kept walking._

_When she crested the stairs, she found that Dorian had brought a carafe of wine and poured them each a goblet. He spared her a single glance, then retreated to her bed and stretched out on it._

_“What’s this?” she asked, and her voice was more hoarse than even she had expected. She cleared her throat and drew closer._

_Dorian stared down into his wine, then glanced aside. There was a soft whoosh in the air as he worked a silent spell, and then every candle scattered throughout the room flared to life. He hadn’t so much as wiggled a finger._

_A year ago, perhaps, Ixchel might have commented on the show of prowess. But instead, she just crawled back into bed and stuck her legs back under the covers and accepted a goblet from him. She wasn’t even certain if she’d drink it._

_“This place has gotten a lot quieter,” Dorian said after a long silence. “I hardly ran into a soul.”_

_Ixchel blinked down into her wine._

_“Aren’t you afraid of assassins? Isn’t anyone afraid for you?” Dorian asked._

_“No,” Ixchel rasped._

_“No, or you don’t care?” he asked._

_Ixchel heard the aggressive edge to his voice, but she didn’t respond. Instead she decided to raise the goblet to her lips and take a sip of wine, despite the fact that she had not eaten in some time. The aromatics filled her mouth so potently that they nearly stung, and she gasped a little after she swallowed. Now she looked at Dorian._

_He had grown out his hair in the year since she had last seen him. It seemed he had also grown out his cheekbones, somehow; he seemed far…sharper, than she had remembered him being at the Exalted Council. He was tightly bundled, of course, against the southern cold, and he did not seem gaunt per say, but there was something lean about him that was more than could be ascribed to weight loss._

_She blinked again, slowly, and wondered if his mouth had tasted like ash for the past year, as well. He hadn’t let on—not through any of their infrequent crystal conversations—if it had, but the look in his eye was enough to make her guess. His gaze was clear and canny as ever, but a new darkness had settled over him. He did not look at her with guilt or disdain or fear or concern, as everyone else had._

_He just looked tired._

_Beyond tired._

_And she knew. She knew his mouth tasted like ash. She knew he saw blood on his hands when he looked down at them. She knew he smelled the burning Qunari flesh in his dreams and heard the gatlok booming in the quiet moments._

_A year since the Exalted Council. A year apart. It was killing them both._

_Dorian extended his arm and she leaned into his side. He was thinner, beneath all those layers, she thought. But then again, so was she._

_“Missed you, cara.”_

Ixchel was suddenly very, very cold.

Despite the fact that her limbs felt like they were made of solid ice, the next thing she did was step back and gesture widely with the arm that held the Anchor in an exaggerated show of welcome. She knew Dorian better than anyone in the world, and she knew how to comfort him—knew she needed to, because he was Dorian. He had come to the Inquisition broken and she had only served to shatter him further with her painful truths. Thus she bid him enter, and she even offered him a small smile.

“Thought you could use some company,” he said in a low, but still light-hearted voice. “All alone in this big old room!”

“You know me so well,” she said with feeling and took the carafe of wine to lighten his load. “What are you reading?”

“It is what _you_ will be reading,” he corrected. “I had borrowed it from Lady Fiona—a bit of fluff, something to make me feel warm and fuzzy and superior to you Southerners—but she requested I return it so she could send it up to you. I told her I could deliver it personally.” He chuckled. “You’re filling out that throne of yours quite well, Madame Inquisitor. Delving into the declarations and manifestos of the rebel mages like a true regent.”

Ixchel made a face at him as she went to fetch goblets. They were not the same goblets they had shared long before; these were not metal but pewter, for they were still, in many ways, a fledgling Inquisition.

But a goblet was a goblet, and Dorian was Dorian.

“So how did it go?” he asked. “You haven’t been turned into an ice sculpture yet, and neither has Fiona. How did you manage that—surviving Madame de Fer?”

“Hard work and intent,” Ixchel said, somewhat wearily. She jerked her head toward her bed to indicate that he should not settle on the couch but join her there, instead.

“Hmm, that sounds a little cold, coming from you.” Dorian curled up like a cat beside her in bed as he accepted a goblet. “Was she always like this, then?”

She did not miss the careful inflection in his voice.

Ixchel nodded. “I don’t know that I ever earned her respect, back then,” she admitted. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I asked for advice constantly, and I think that made me look weak, rather than…”

“Inquisitive?” Dorian said. A corner of his mustache twitched with good humor.

She rolled her eyes. “Sure. But… I always admired her conviction, and her ability to maneuver. When she is fully briefed on a situation, there is no stopping her from engineering it to support her agenda. So… I have tried to make it clear that I have an agenda, too, and that it doesn’t necessarily have to work against hers.”

They swirled their wine contemplatively for a moment.

“It’s hard to believe, I think, with all the chaos. And the idea that there could ever be a shift in how mages are viewed by the Southern Chantry or by the lay people…”

Dorian snorted. “From your lips to the Maker’s most gracious ear.”

“She’s agreed to come witness Anders’s separation from Justice,” Ixchel said. “And I want to show her how the Avvar live.”

 _And I want her to see the Temple of Mythal. The Vir Dirthara. I want her to see what once was. What could be. What_ will _be._

Ixchel leveled her bright gaze at Dorian over the top of her goblet and wished all the same for him, too.

He scoffed a little. “And of course you have considered the idea that she would like to come simply to murder this abomination in cold blood, your blue-and-orange morality be damned?”

“I have,” she said, “and she said that she trusts me.” Dorian’s eyebrows shot up infuriatingly and he took another innocent sip of his wine. She brushed it off and settled deeper into her headboard. “I trust. I’m not unprepared. If I tell Solas, he’ll be on alert in case Vivienne tries anything. But I don’t think she will.”

“You must be surreptitious, then,” he said. “We’ll be, what, in the middle of a camp—”

Ixchel frowned and tilted her head. “I’ll just tell him in the Fade tonight,” she said.

Dorian blinked. “How far away is he?”

She tried to do the math. “We started in Redcliffe, and I told him to make for the Frostback Basin. Anders was seriously injured…”

“Then _quite_ far,” he said sadly. “I don’t know if you can find him, even with the Anchor enabling you to dream lucidly. Most mages couldn’t without quite a bit of lyrium.”

Ixchel smiled into her wine. “Ah,” she said. “Solas is quite the powerful _somniari_ , Dorian.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “You speak from experience.”

“It’s like he was born in the Fade,” Ixchel said around a growing smile. She felt sufficiently comfortable that Dorian didn’t have the body of knowledge to understand the joke she had just made. “He’s always been able to find me. When I was in Val Royeaux, for example.” And she was, after all, fairly certain that he had been somewhere deep in northern Tevinter half of the time she had found him in the Fade after the Exalted Council. Sometimes it had felt like there was nowhere she could go _without_ feeling him out there in the deepest parts of the Fade, just out of reach.

Dorian’s gaze was still narrow as he studied her. “There is something I have meant to ask you,” he said slowly.

Her heart jumped to her throat at the thought that she had judged him wrongly and had accidentally revealed too much. “Not about the state of my bed again, I hope?” she asked to bluffed her sudden discomfort away from the true topic.

“In a way.” He swirled his wine but did not sip. “The day we met… Fell through a time portal… Saw many of our now-dear friends wasting away to Blighted lyrium… You had done that before.”

Ixchel sat back a little. “Yes,” she said darkly.

Dorian’s brows knit together low on his forehead and he released a long, slow breath. “How different was it, from the last time?”

She had thought she knew where this conversation was going, but now she leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, and frowned back at him. “Very, very similar. Varric, Solas, Bull, all in the same cells I remembered. Leliana, captured by Alexius—resistant to the Blight… Felix, an empty husk…”

Dorian glanced up at her, askance, then back down in his wine. “Everything we had done was purely theoretical. The amount of power, the consequences on the Veil—it never was worth it to test our ideas. We had wondered if, by opening these rifts, one was creating a loop in time back to the same world, just earlier or later… The other option being that all time was necessarily linear, and what could be perceived as time travel was simply accessing a parallel universe with conditions that align with a conceived-of past or future for your world state.” He sighed again in frustration. “But you are here, and you are not sixteen. So where is the teenage you?”

“Terinelan said that he sent off my teenage self to the Conclave,” she offered.

“You took a ship?” he guessed. She nodded. “It’s possible you—she—never made it to the Conclave, in this…world.” He bit his lip, then scowled and took a long swallow of his wine.

“I’m sorry but…is this academic, or important?” she asked, and she winced because she immediately didn’t like how that sounded to her own ears.

Dorian scoffed. “All matters of academia are important. Whether they are _relevant_ to current events is always a question. To which I believe the answer is: immensely. There was some sort of cataclysm in the world that…you…left behind. I’m concerned that whatever effect that had on the Veil _there_ might harm the Veil _here_. But if they are _not_ the same Veil, then that might be one less concern of mine.”

She sipped at her own wine uneasily as she considered this; of course, her thoughts immediately went to Solas and his feelings about the loss of the People. _His world_ , he had said, she had said, so many times. She wasn’t sure if she liked the idea that her home, her Dorian, were smoldering in the cosmos somewhere, even now.

The Tevinter mage in her bed shook himself. “Ah, but these are matters I must bring up with the scholars coming from home,” he said. “In pure hypotheticals, of course, considering the topic.”

“Thanks,” she said queasily.

“But—yes, I do have something to ask about your lovers. In that Blighted future, you were already awfully intimate with Solas. I had fully expected that to be the case when we returned, but it seemed you were far less well-acquainted here, at the time.”

Ixchel looked away in the direction of her balcony.

Dorian left the statement hanging in the air between them for a long time. All the while, Ixchel focused on keeping her breaths slow and gentle through her nose, despite the suddenly frantic pace of her heart and thoughts. She tried to anticipate what she should tell him, because she knew that the answers she had given Cassandra would not be enough to satisfy Dorian—especially, though not solely, because of their experience in the Blighted Future.

“Do you know what ‘ _vhenan_ ’ means?”

Behind her, Dorian’s clothes whispered as he moved. There was a soft clunk as he set his goblet down on the bedside table, and then the mattress shifted as he settled a little closer to her. “Yes,” he said.

“I called him that, when he was in the cell…and he immediately understood.” She swallowed painfully. “I called him _vhenan_ and told him the truth. I needed someone to know. I needed him to…explain…”

“ _Ixchel_ ,” Dorian whispered. “No.”

“I didn’t _just_ kill myself because of a man,” she spat.

“Of course not,” Dorian agreed, but his tone was wary. She rounded on him and found him with that same wretched light in his eyes that she had seen when he was soaked in liquor in her library. She gritted her teeth at his pity and anger, and he bit his lip. “It just, perhaps, explains some things.”

Ixchel glowered at him. “Like what?”

“That you might be convinced someone could leave you,” he replied. His eyes reflected the candlelight around them wetly, but he did not reach for her—mercifully. She might have recoiled, and she knew how much that would have hurt him. Her friend.

He was trying.

He had always tried.

Ixchel could feel the tears that held her throat hostage move to her lips, her jaw. Soon she would be trembling. But, bravely, she sucked in a harsh breath in her throat. “Partly,” she said.

“Because we all left,” he guessed. “Why would we?”

“I told you, Dor,” she said. There was the tremble: in her voice. “Everyone had their reasons. Good reasons.”

“But…all this…” He gestured around them, then at her hand. “The Breach? The Veil? We left it?”

Ixchel had to end this. Her pulse thundered in her ears, so loud that it nearly drowned out her carefully chosen words: “A political threat apparently trumps existential dangers. Orlais and Ferelden insisted the Inquisition disband. Everyone went their separate ways to figure out what came next…and I was tired.”

“And alone.”

Ixchel squeezed her eyes shut and wrestled with the words in her throat. She had to raise her chin to get them out, but at last she turned her face fully to Dorian and looked him in the eye and said: “I’m not anymore.”

She finished her wine and they talked for a long while, though the mood never lightened much in the wake of this last heady topic. Ixchel told him what she knew about his efforts in the Magisterium to abolish slavery and stem the overuse of blood magic. She told him more of what she knew, “as an academe herself,” about Tranquility and its cure, and Avvar customs.

As the night progressed, they ended up curled around one another like lazy cats amid their quilts; she drunkenly wrote patterns in the air with boneless hands, while he grew increasingly professorial in his manner. For as much as he leaned into his foppish penchants in public, this was the Dorian she knew best. This was the Dorian she understood, and who understood her. Years of loneliness, years of despair, had shaped the both of them into obsessively competent people in each of their respective spheres. Dorian had carved out a space in thaumaturgy for himself in which he could make sense of a senseless world, where he could connect disparate facts and observations into unified truths while truths and certainty escaped him elsewhere. She had turned her eyes to the past, to unearth what had been, to challenge accepted methodology and policy and beliefs and say: _this could yet be. It must._

When they were reduced to silent drunks dozing in each other’s arms, Dorian finally extricated himself from their warm nest and made a show of stretching and yawning. “Well, I shan’t sleep in a man’s bed while his lover calls to him through the endless Fade,” he demurred in a sing-song voice. He ran a carelessly affectionate hand through Ixchel’s hair and sighed. “Congratulations again on surviving the latest development in the war of the Southern Mages.”

“Mfnks,” she said into her pillow, and she didn’t hear him leave, because she was already asleep.


	124. Possession**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY.
> 
> 2/14/21

Ixchel had not known how long it would take Solas to come to her in the Fade, or if he would at all. The long wait, wandering the Fade in search of him, was reminiscent of Before, when he was the elusive Dread Wolf who had styled her as an enemy when they both knew she refused to be one. A Dread Wolf who watched as a multitude of gleaming eyes in the shadows, or a pair of divinely blue eyes as a wolf on the periphery of her dreams.

Perhaps it was that creeping sense of familiarity that set her on edge. Whatever it was, she waited long enough to wear herself out, and she slipped into an out-of-focus state of dreaming. And without her wards, without his presence, that dream bled into a nightmare of a kind.

She was not clawing her way out of the Deep Roads; neither was she in Vir Dirthara, or falling off the Abyssal Rift at Adamant, or any number of other places that haunted her.

She was in her bed, paralyzed, breathless, numb, and a monster was in the room with her. Unlike the day she died, there was no sunlight to keep it from creeping to the foot of her bed.

And unlike the day she died, she did not want to die anymore.

 _Nonononono,_ she pleaded desperately as she tried to regain control of her dreamed body. _Wakeupwakeupwakeup—_

Solas’s appearance in her dream was as sudden and terrifying as a shattered window. Yet it was not the windows that shattered: it was the whole dream. The Despair that had invaded her mind was caught and assessed and torn to shreds by virtue of Solas’s mere presence, it seemed. One moment, Ixchel was frozen in bed, screaming to wake and incapable of grasping herself, and the next, she was held fast in _Solas_ as he wrested her from this nightmare and into his dream.

The suddenness of it was utterly disorienting, but he held her fast and tight until she had come to herself again. That, in itself, was disconcerting; it felt far too similar to how the Dread Wolf had carved her soul out of eternal death at the end of her world.

Ixchel clung to Solas, and then, slowly, she realized that he clung to her with just as desperate a grasp.

“Solas!”

She shifted her grip on him to look him in the face and wished to see past it, to see into him. For a split second—the span of half a heartbeat, a flicker in the Fade—his eyes were dark and _feral_ as they looked down at her. He was angry, he was hurt, he was scared.

But a moment later, all that was gone, and he was just _sad_.

He collapsed around her in a whirl of magic, and she held on to him and his presence as tightly as she could amid the roaring onslaught. A panicked thought entered her: _I can’t lose him._

“ _Emma lath,_ ” she pleaded. “I’m here.”

“Yes.” His voice rasped, quaked, and it terrified her. Ixchel knew her fear could very well be a mere remnant of whatever Demon had sought to prey upon her. But the fact that even in his presence her terror did not melt away and the dream did not settle, kept her fears alive.

She summoned all her strength and raised herself up to steady him. She grasped him by the nape of his neck and his cheek and pulled his forehead to hers. “I’m here,” she repeated.

“You are real,” he whispered.

That shook her into an urgent, cold rationality. “Did you have a nightmare too?” she asked. “What has upset you like this?”

“I—”

It was so unlike him to start a sentence before he had thought of how to finish it. His next words caught in his throat, and when he swallowed them, buried whatever he was about to admit deep within him, he likewise drove his tension down and out of view. His shoulders slumped and his hands fell limp at his sides.

Then the Fade shaped itself out of its amorphous tumult and into that small cave-like chamber in which Fen’Harel had painted his self portrait. On the wall behind him, the wolf and the man ran across the dark landscape, framed by the moon, carefree and innocent. Beneath them, this time, were furs and reed mats. They stood together in the midst of this one-time den of his and breathed together in silence.

She brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek and found it cold and hard as alabaster. She knew when he hid behind masks.

“Don’t make me ask Cole,” she warned, breath hot against his face. His lashes fluttered and obscured the silver windows behind them. She shook him a little. “Solas?”

He shook his head slowly, nose touching hers with every turn left and right.

“Just tell me.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper, weak—still afraid. “It doesn’t have to make sense. I don’t have to understand. I won’t judge you. Whatever it is… I can be the one you tell. Please tell me.”

“I have broken _everything_ ,” his lips tried to say, but his voice was naught but a breath. “The Fade. Spirits. _Myself_.”

Ixchel stared at his closed eyelids in blank confusion. What had brought this on? What did it mean?

He was telling her, at least, and that meant something.

She shushed him gently and kissed his brow, because without any other answers, she was afraid to speak. She at least could tell him, without words, that she would not take his admissions and leave. Whatever had changed—her faithfulness remained constant. She wanted to be his anchor amid whatever had whipped his mind into a storm.

He tilted his head a little, nearly to catch her lips with his own, but before she could close the distance he had started to speak again:

“It is impossible for them to extricate willingly. That should not _be_. I cannot help them, even with what power I have grown in these waking months.” His throat worked around a knot of tears that she could almost—almost—hear in his voice. “And…they will seek penance for their crimes, the lives they have destroyed. But what can I do, Ixchel? Nothing I can do shall ever compare to the _magnitude_ of my folly…”

With every word, Ixchel’s heart lurched to and fro. Nausea filled her as though she were on a ship caught by a tempest; his words wreaked chaos within her. It was not his honesty that unsettled her, for he had become quite honest with her over the past several months. Nor was it necessarily his grief—because, perhaps better than perhaps anyone alive or ever, she knew that he kept grief as a constant companion. But he had hardly seemed so…raw…since they left the Fade. She had feared it was only a matter of time before his ghosts resurfaced, and it seemed that a week without her, dreaming or waking, had let them in.

Ixchel held steady as she could but for the heavy breath that escaped her. He looked up at her with his ancient eyes, and she knew how rare this vulnerability was.

“What can you do?” she repeated softly. “You think your mistake vast across the Veil, and such is the length of the reparations you’ll make. You think you deserve a quick and rash and desperate punishment to match a desperate mistake?”

His tired, sad mask crumpled beneath the weight of his grief. She crushed him to her, for she wished somehow to remind him that this body of his did not need to be always a prison. That he was not adrift, alone, in a dream; she was a willing anchor. He could walk both worlds, with her at his side.

“Yours is the hard, slow road to redemption. And I will be with you every step of the way,” she told him.

Solas’s fingers dug into her back. Something she had said had hurt him, but she didn’t know what.

“I am afraid for you,” she told him. “What brought this on?”

A shudder wracked his lean frame. He looked up at her with shining eyes. “None of them know how it should be. Not even Compassion… I grieve, Ixchel.”

She ran her nails lightly up and down his back and tried to think of whether she was meant to say anything, or if his grief needed space to settle. Instead of speaking, she pressed her lips gently to his cheek. It was alabaster, porcelain, no longer. It was soft and warm and damp.

She kissed his brow next, then his other cheek, then his jaw.

He made a pained sound in his throat at her show of tenderness, and he tightened his grip on her, his lifeline. “There are so many things that still catch me,” he whispered. “Every day. Every moment. There is a reminder. Every spell is a battle, a demand, when magic should be as constant and steady as breath, beyond thought...”

“We will find a way to make it flow,” she promised.

Solas flinched suddenly. “ _Ir abelas,_ ” he whispered. “This is your dream…” He was still so close to her lips that the words were traded on breaths between them. He ran his tongue across his own lips as though they were dry, as though he were nervous. “I do not have nightmares… I create them for myself…”

She brushed her thumbs across the high lines of his cheeks again and shaped the Fade more to her liking. There were no reminders of Fen’Harel, of painful choices, of lost innocence, in the place she brought him: the Skyhold garden in bloom. Her mind embellished it, perhaps. In the waking world, she doubted the ground would ever be so lavishly strewn with blossoms. But she adored the sight of him framed against the flowering trees, and she hoped to remind him of the hope they kindled in one another.

“I am real,” Ixchel told him, and she kissed him gently.

But he shivered beneath her hands. His fingers tightened once again against her back, her waist, then released her. He slid lower, down onto his knees amid the scattered flowers.

“I have missed the sound of your voice,” he said. The raw note in his voice had been replaced with something more certain, but the look in his eye remained vulnerable and afraid and still left her at a loss about his motives or desires—or how she could help him.

She swept her hands across his face, cupped his jaw. “My constant moralizing?” she teased hesitantly. “I can tell you all about my conversations today. Hours of prattling.”

“Please,” he said, and he began to unlace her trousers.

She raised her eyebrows down at him, gestured with one hand at the empty wings of the garden. “Demons, Solas?”

His gaze flickered up to her just as he got her pants loose enough to pull down her legs. The Fade had warmed around them, and she could feel his breath on her thighs—

“Trust me,” he said. “Please.” And this time, his voice was softer, nearly a question, nearly _withdrawing_ —

She wondered if this was as close to begging as she might ever hear him. If her lover had not just crashed into her dream in a panic, and if he had not seemed so desperate to remind himself that she was real in the wake of his guilt about the state of the world—she might have relished the idea of him on his knees for her. But as it stood, she had spent months trying to teach him that she was real, that this world was fixable, and that had been cast into doubt somehow.

Of course, she had not been the one opposed to this, the last time they had come close to such an encounter in the Fade. But the lance of unhappy fear in her breast was remarkably unarousing.

She relented and began to tell him softly of how her friends had each reacted to the revelations she laid at their feet. She led with her tense arrival at Skyhold, and as she spoke, he bared new swathes of skin as he drew her trousers down. It didn’t take long for her to realize he was probably doing so in some obscure mathematical pattern—every few words of hers triggered movement, and in the lulls between he skimmed his lips across her jumping flesh. His hands sometimes dropped to idly brush across the tops of her feet or the inside of her calves, and maybe that was what made her realize that this was less of a game and more of a ritual. A ritual she did not understand but one she could respect for the comfort that it promised to bring him.

So she moved on to tell him of her discussion with Cassandra, and she could not help the eagerness that crept into her voice as she told him of the most promising developments. She looked down at him with shyly, for she wanted to see how he took this idea that the future leader of the disastrously misguided human Chantry might consider a more holistic view of Spirits and magic. He lifted her ankle with one elegant hand to free it from the heap of cloth beneath her, and then the other, to leave her half undressed in front of him.

Solas looked up at her expectantly, and she realized that she had fallen silent.

“Is…is this helping?” she asked.

A crease appeared in the corner of his eyes, and a small smirk twisted his lips. Solas raked the tips of his fingers in a slow, arcing path from her knee and up her outer thigh, and his hand left a contradictory mix of gooseflesh and heat in its wake.

His gaze dropped back to her bare skin. A faraway look had overtaken him.

“You have been more helpful than I ever could imagine, Champion,” he said.

“No,” she said suddenly. While he had undressed her and while she spoke, she had been stroking his cheek and neck with gentle fingers. But now she took him boldly by the chin and lifted his face, twisted it, to meet her eye. “No double-speak, _harellan_. This isn’t about me and the People. This is about me and you, here, right now.”

That pale, distant smirk grew bitter and dark. Ixchel wanted to tear that twisted expression off of his face; it hurt her to look at for too long, as though he were trying to smile while he was being gutted.

He whetted his lips again, and for a moment she worried that he might withdraw, obfuscate more. Instead, he tilted his head further to look her in the eye. “Please,” he murmured, “tell me your stories of hope. I need the sound of your voice.”

And the swell of emotion in his voice, the slightest tremor she heard, tugged viciously at her heart. For a moment, despite his plea, she was left overwhelmed and speechless. It had been a while since she so desperately wished to meld with him, but the need swelled within her chest and there was nothing she could do but bend toward him and kiss Solas as searingly as she could. With open mouth she offered him everything she had, lavished him with all the attention she could give. She kissed him until his fingers dug into her thighs like she were his only anchor. When she had kissed him breathless, she leaned away and closed her eyes and breathed for herself.

And she continued with her story of hope. For that was what it was—the feeling that coiled in her gut, that slowly unfurled and blossomed and burned within her. It was not _only_ the heat left on her skin as his nose now traced patterns on her hip. It was not _only_ that his hands had strayed northward to scratch lightly at her back and ghost across the hardening peak of each breast. As he knelt at her feet and worshiped every inch of skin he could reach, she relived the tense moments from her day and the culmination of so much anticipation breaking in more or less the best ways she could imagine.

He had worked her smalls off sometime as she spoke, and around that time he had begun to kiss her stomach, her hips, her thighs, and it was driving her mad. By the time she finished telling him about Fiona, every hot breath against her skin sent ripples of desire into the deepest and furthest parts of her. He seemed to realize that her anticipation had crested and her story had ended, for he finally spread her with his fingers and gave her a flickering lick.

A sound immediately burst from her, short and breathless; her desire had been something distant, like a roll of thunder, and that one obscene touch was as startling and sudden as a lightning bolt. She had expected its arrival, yet the intensity of the need that came alive in each and every one of her limbs was beyond anything she had been prepared for.

The man between her legs released a strained chuckle as her legs quaked, and he leaned away. Solas tugged at her hands as he went and intimated she should come down to the ground. Her chest fluttered already from her scattered breath. When she tried to rock back on her heels to either sit or lay back, he instead tugged her roughly forward, into his arms. She was left dizzied and starved for air, starved for him.

Solas kissed her wantonly and dragged her closer to his lap. The heat that filled her was as otherworldly as the atmosphere around them, and she reveled in it all. Petals still fell around them, slid beneath her knees as she straddled him; a heavenly scent filled the air, and because it was unfamiliar to her it must have been summoned by Solas’s influence in her dreamscape.

That was not all that had been summoned to this domain of theirs. As she surfaced from the kiss, she saw new movement at the edge of her vision—a few wispy infiltrators flitted through the wings of the garden, summoned by the mounting ardor in her and in him.

Before she could comment on their audience, Solas sought her returned attention as his hand appeared, lightly, just a touch, at the base of her throat. Even so, her breath caught as surely as if he had a stranglehold on her. She resumed kissing him, perhaps to steal her breath back from him.

“Please,” he groaned into her needy mouth. “Let me hear you this time, _arasha_.”

 _I am real_ , she thought to say again—this time as a riotous cry—but instead she groaned, loud and wordless.

He curled his fingers around her mound and swept one digit between the wet folds. Solas’s breath escaped him in a sharp gasp. “Yes,” he hissed in pleasure and dark satisfaction

She rocked her hips to draw closer to his fingers, to seek a fullness that she was already ready for. Ixchel half expected him to mock her impatience, but he said nothing more. Instead, his grip on her throat tightened a little in a warning for her to still.

Ixchel did her best to comply, for it was his desire she wanted to fill here and now. She assessed him through her lashes, thinking she might find the same mischievous stare he had often given her when he was about to torture her, deny her release until there thought she might _die_ for the need. And she loved it, loved the slow torture just as much as she loved the consuming ferocity he could also show.

She found neither now as he held her gaze and stroked his fingers through her dripping heat.

Ixchel hooked one arm around his lean shoulders to steady herself and rested her other hand, with the Anchor, against his chest. Here in the Fade she could feel the magic in her hand respond so readily to the magic in him, and apparently so could he—for the swift flicks he gave her clit were now set to the pace of the Anchor’s pulse and his heartbeat beneath it.

She let her head fall back. “Solas,” she moaned for him, and his fingers pressed more firmly where she needed them—

She caught on quickly.

“Solas,” she said again, joy creeping into her voice.

“Tell me,” he whispered, and though her gaze had slipped away from his she could still _feel_ the intensity of his stare upon her as her throat worked to find words for what he wanted.

No. Words that _she_ wanted.

It was harder that way—to find both courage and language to speak her desires to him. It was more revealing, less of a performance, than anticipating what he wanted—but what were they except revealed, raw, bare to one another? What else did she want to be, to do, except meet every one of his and her desires together? It was not so wrong that she should speak of them to him now.

He had asked, after all.

Solas’s finger circled her clit more slowly, perhaps because her thighs had begun to tremble in her silence. She swallowed hard and tightened her grip on his shoulders. “I want you to make me come with your fingers,” she tried to say, but it came out in a quivering rush. Her voice was too high—it wasn’t a demand, it was a question—she wasn’t good at this, not like he was—

And he was _so good._

 _“Ha’mi’in,”_ he soothed. “ _Lasa em tua rosas’da’din.”_

He released her throat and supported her now between her shoulder blades as he sank his fingers into her and settled his thumb against her clit with just the perfect pressure, the right rhythm. His hot, slick mouth found her scarred collar and she sighed. When he moved to lavish her scarred chest with his tongue, he spread his fingers within her heat to fill her--then he curled his fingers back, and she arched toward him with a sharper cry on her lips.

“Like that,” she said, words tumbling from her mouth in the beginning of a refrain. “Y-you know me so well. Like no one else. Before, or forever— _ahh—”_

Somehow, speaking the words aloud multiplied the sentiment behind them, and she tightened her knees around him as something close to a climax swept through her. He did not pull her back away from the edge as he had in the past. Instead, his teeth found the swell of her breast and he quickened the pace of his thumb and sent her flying.

A guttural cry tore from her throat as she rode his hand through her orgasm, and he _groaned_ against her chest. He fucked her with his fingers with a fervor that matched her passion—nearly vicious with it. And still it wasn’t enough.

Ixchel tore herself from the throes and ducked her head to interrupt his devious lips with a kiss. Her teeth raked against his mouth in her hurry, but then his lips parted for her and he accepted the onslaught of her twining tongue. The desperate way he clung to her, continued to impale her, let her kiss him, was intoxicating in its own right.

“Fuck me,” she pleaded, hardly breaking away to speak. “Fuck me! Solas—”

She tensed again as another quake erupted in her belly and shattered across her skin.

The hand that had been supporting her back now tangled in her hair, and he pulled back her head to expose her throat and pull her back—and she fell, and he followed, in a coordinated crash that left her utterly breathless. His fingers had left her, but he had given her his teeth on her sensitive throat instead, and the electricity within her had never stopped coursing through her limbs. She dug her nails into his back and cried out as his tongue swept across a sensitive swathe of skin—

And she had no idea when or what or how it happened that he was naked against her, but he was. With her fingers she drank in every glorious inch of his broad shoulders and found the length of his arms—

“Patience,” he breathed in her ear.

She jerked, suddenly furious. But the command was not the beginning of denial, not part of a game. He slid down the length of her body in one lithe motion until his breath burned against the slick between her legs—

“Hnnngh—” The keening sound became a wail as he dove in to her heat and suckled at her swollen pearl without any teasing. Spots broke across her vision, or maybe it was the dream falling apart around her as Spirits crowded in, but she found she had no space in her mind to think of anything except the _sensation_ exploding within her. He feasted on her with abandon, and with the scalding heat of his mouth he burned away any of her remaining inhibitions. With deep, consuming kisses, he devoured the thick arousal he had stirred up within her; his deft tongue tasted every fold of her sex and laid trails of devotion back and forth across her clit.

Ixchel’s fingers tore into the earth beneath them as her back arched up. “Now,” she begged, “I need you—”

“Be specific,” he said harshly, but he was already rising up onto all fours above her.

Her lips parted as she drank in the sight of him. Solas was flushed and winded; he gulped down greedy breaths through his beautiful mouth, which was slick and wet with her cum. With one hand, he stroked his hard length over her. Her stare lingered there, and his movements slowed as she watched, until the one arm that held him up began to tremble and she remembered what he was waiting for.

She had to swallow again, for she had begun to salivate as she watched him, and this time she found the words but did not have the courage to meet his eye. “I need you inside me,” she said, and she let her head fell back to the sky. She closed her eyes and gasped. “I need you to fuck me—fuck me into the _ground,_ Solas—”

Solas pushed the length of his cock through her folds to coat himself in hot slick desire, and she felt him throb. They cried out together at the feeling, even though he had not yet entered her. She loved that sound—the terrible want in him that she knew she was about to sate.

Something in Ixchel snapped when he finally sheathed himself in her. She was pulled taught, and everything felt sharp and glassy and clear and powerful, and she raised her knees to meet him with a strength that she thought had left her.

“Yes!” she cried.

“Yes,” he agreed triumphantly. He laid a hand against her throat again and squeezed a little at the very same moment that he bottomed out against her. Her inner muscles seized immediately, and he laughed raucously above her at her eager responses. She tugged at his neck and traded that laughter for a desperate growl that rose in her own throat.

Solas set a slow, smoldering pace between her legs that did not lack for intensity. She keened into his mouth at the delicious shock of every thrust, and for a while, she lost herself to the dizzying sensations that pushed her closer and closer to a beautiful oblivion. But when he broke away to bury his face in her shoulder, she dragged his head back up with a tight grip on his neck so she could look him right in the eye.

They were wide at her boldness.

“Show me I’m yours,” she said through her teeth. “Don’t hold back. Make it hurt.”

“Ixchel,” he groaned, and he doubled over again. His arms curled around her head to brace himself as he drove his cock deeper and deeper with every thrust. She clumsily tried to cant her hips up to meet his quick motions—and in doing so, she found an angle that meant that she felt every impact from her toes to the roots of her hair. She tightened her grip on his neck just to hold on, and he dug his teeth in the muscle between her neck and shoulder, and she screamed his name as she came undone.

“Yes— _yesyes!_ —Solas—”

He didn’t stop. Instead, his pace grew more frantic, and he straightened up a little to change the angle and chase those terrible, beautiful impacts that she _knew_ she would feel, even upon leaving the Fade.

Solas dragged shaking fingers across her face as he fucked her. He traced her lips with his long, elegant fingers, and she parted them on instinct. He shook with need, and he could not seem to tear his eyes away as she took his fingers into her mouth. She swirled her tongue between the long, elegant digits and sucked until another delicious sound welled up in him:

" _Mine_.”

When Solas finally reached the height of his own release, it was with a snarl that matched her own in its savagery. She sought his lips with her own and kissed him like a drowning woman as he spilled within her. With slow rocks of her hips, she carried him down from his climax and enveloped him in her gratitude

They lay there together, chests heaving with exertion, as something pulled taught in the Fade around them. He buried his face in her hair, breath rough in her ear. But he did not speak.

She wrapped her arms around him and splayed her fingers across his back to comfort him. As always, she was uncertain as to the full complexity of whatever feeling had seized him. But she was certain of her own.

_“Ar lath ma, vhenan."_

* * *

And here is a WIP of Ixchel's tarot card. You can check out more on [tumblr](https://dreadfutures.tumblr.com).


	125. The Simple Things**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight... I don't really know what this chapter is! Everyone in it just ran away from me!  
> 2/17/21

Solas’s labored breaths hitched in his chest at her words—and then she felt his magic flare all around her, _within_ her, and it scoured her with all of his attention and intent. It was like a bucket of ice water had been splashed across her in an instant. She tensed immediately, lungs seized and incapable of breath as the power seeped through her skin and into her core. Then, as abruptly as she had sensed it, he withdrew both his awareness from her consciousness and his cock from her still-throbbing heat and sat up.

She swallowed hard and shivered at the sudden emptiness. Somehow, their decoupling had ignited all the rapturous soreness left by their tryst.

Ixchel looked up at Solas, framed as he was against the flowering trees, only to shudder more deliciously. The raw power of the Fade radiated from his eyes and in his every heavy breath. His eyes _blazed_ with a heat and potency she knew he held within him but she so rarely saw surface.

Her bare skin erupted into gooseflesh under the gaze of this god; she was keenly aware of how bare and open she was, in every regard, spread on the ground beneath him. But Ixchel had never felt herself a halla, had never felt him the wolf.

She raised the hand that held the Anchor and laid it gently upon his arm.

“Truly?” he breathed.

Even in the moment she shaped _vhenan_ on her lips, she hadn’t been certain if the word would hurt, or even _how_. To dare call him _vhenan_ felt as though she were peeling back a bandage to peer at a wound beneath—would she rip off a delicate scab and aggravate the wound anew? Or would she find something glossy and healed?

But it was not fear that held her breath caught in her throat. The pain in her chest was not salt on a wound. Instead, she was run through with the _joy_ of this moment.

She could not contain the giddy smile that wanted to erupt across her face. It blossomed, bright and almost painfully wide, as she smoothed her hand down the length of his forearm and laced her fingers with his own. “Yes,” she said. “I… I can’t find that anger in me, anymore. Things are working. Things are _new_. And…it’s simply _true, ‘ma vhenan.”_

But a sudden realization nearly stole the smile from her lips. She was not the only one who might now associate the endearment with something dark and dead.

Ixchel’s brow creased with concern. “If…if that is alright for you. Unless there is something else—”

Solas’s grip on her hand tightened, and she cut herself off.

“You may call me anything in any language you wish to,” he growled, and he hauled her upward with a pull on her hand and an arm around her waist—and then she was in his lap again, and his lips were crushed to hers once more.

The sound she made as he kissed her was utterly unabashed in its wantonness.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he groaned against her mouth.

Ixchel wrapped her arms around his shoulders and stroked the soft, warm skin at the back of his neck as he kissed her. The deep, ardent kiss gentled some then, but it did not lose its heat.

She sipped at his lips with shallow, smiling kisses. “I will return soon. …Though it will be with an entourage.”

Solas huffed discontentedly as he pulled away to rest his forehead against hers, and he fixed her with a dark look.

“All I want is to lay my waking eyes upon you again.” His voice held a lilting, husky intonation—his words, a prayer. “This world is not enough without you.”

For a moment, she had been filled with simultaneous wonder and fear at the _belief_ in his words; the pressure to live up to their shared mission, to be the Brave Guide on their path ahead, to keep him off the _din'an'shiral,_ could crush her. He had walked among gods before, after all, and seen them fall.

And yet he believed in her. Ixchel felt the icy prickles of dread melt beneath the heat of his gaze; sometimes, when he turned those intent, silver eyes upon her, she felt that he saw her more completely than even she understood. And still, he believed. Still, he saw his heart in her.

“You are no dream. No Spirit…” He brushed her hair behind one of her ears, then trailed his long fingers around the shell of it. “I have spent much time in the Fade with Justice and Anders, and…surfacing, alone…” His breath was hot on her face. “It is too much like when I woke a year ago and thought myself to be in a waking nightmare.”

She cuddled closer so that her breasts pressed against his chest—so close, perhaps their hearts might beat as one. Their noses brushed across each other’s cheeks.

“But I could not have dreamed you up, even if I tried.”

“I’m real,” she promised in a whisper. _“‘Ma sal’shiral…’ma vhenan…_ Next time I suggest we part ways…don’t let me go.”

Solas’s lips curled into a wicked grin. “Those exact words? Is that your wish?”

“It is,” she said. “It’s not worth being away. Efficiency? Who cares? There’s no reason I cannot save the world with you at my side…”

He laughed, and it seemed that perhaps he had finally shaken off the weight of worlds that haunted him. He tipped forward to kiss her again, and she was happy to accept—

Except—

“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” she said after a moment. His expression was so quickly overcome with hurt and uncertainty that she reclaimed an arm from him and reached for his face, to literally smooth his brow. She made sure to inject an overly seductive tone into her voice as she tried to reassure him she was not inherently uncomfortable with _Fade sex_ : “How will the both of us feel, to wake alone, after a night like ours?”

Solas’s concern melted away again, and he chuckled.

“It would not be the first time I have acted rashly in my long life,” he said dryly. His chuckle became a snicker, which he swallowed—but he could not hide his devilish smirk. He tried, anyway, as he bent and nuzzled his cheek against her own. “The pleasure I have taken from you tonight will have left evidence,” he whispered in her ear.

She jerked as arousal pooled instantly in her gut again, and then she gasped, for his teeth had found the sensitive lobe of her ear.

“You will think of me as you touch yourself in the bath… Won’t you, ‘ _ma’haurasha?”_

An airy laugh escaped her. “Alright.”

 _“Silal or ma tu ara’len’palan,”_ he breathed. “I’ll miss you. But we will be together in that way.”

“I _love_ you, Solas,” she replied, shifting in his lap to straddle him again. He was hard again, and her cheeks burned to think it was at the thought of her—hands between her thighs, sinking below the steaming water of a bath. “But please do something about the voyeurs.”

Solas’s chest shuddered with barely-contained laughter. He reached between them to stroke himself idly, and with every motion his knuckles brushed against her core. She was mostly sated, but still even the most accidental of touches made her _yearn_. “They cannot harm you,” he assured her. “But I can do little to keep them _away_. This is their domain.”

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, and his smirk widened. With his free hand, he pushed her face to look out at one wing of Skyhold’s garden. There were no Demons she recognized—not even a single lustful Desire Demon disguised as beautiful humans—nothing but wisps. They observed, and were observed, but they did not reflect the…moments…in any way Ixchel might have expected. Perhaps there was something sensuous about the way they undulated and wound around one another, but otherwise, there was only a general sense of _intelligence_ in the gathered crowd of amorphous Spirits.

Which was enough to make her feel watched by them.

They watched as Solas ran his fingers through her folds again to test her slick.

They watched as Solas nipped at the taught chord of her turned neck.

They watched as Solas pulled her down by her hips and filled her tight heat with his cock.

Ixchel gave a long, low grown at the stretch of him inside her, and she ground down lower in his lap. He exhaled heavily across her cheek and reached up to brush her hair away from her shoulders. “You are so accommodating,” he said appreciatively.

“Trusting,” she corrected warmly. She looked back at him out of the corner of her eye. “Not just of myself, either.”

He chuckled and gathered her face up in his hands so that he could kiss her. “As is only right, _rogasha’ghi’lan.”_

Ixchel twisted her hips a little in response to his achingly gentle kiss, and she ran her hands up the long, lean sides of him. “Lay down,” she said softly.

He barely pulled out of her as he rearranged their legs and settled down on his back, with her straddling him. She leaned forward to curtain him with her hair and kiss him again, and he raised his knees to make sure he never left her empty. She moaned into his mouth and braced herself with her hands on his chest.

“This is not their domain,” she said in a low voice. She bowed her head and pressed a kiss to the pulse in his throat. “It is yours, vhenan. As am I.”

-:-:-:-:-

Solas was right.

Though her bed was as empty as it had been all night, her body was less understanding of the divide between dreams and waking. She was immediately aware of the slippery fluid at the apex of her thighs, and the insistent throb of her pulse—and the desperately unsatiated need to be filled. She groaned as she sat up, but the noise faded into a hiss. Every limb felt overwhelmingly _used_ , as though she had been thrashing all night long.

She did not even wait to go to the bath and instead dipped her fingers disbelievingly through her folds, only to find herself still wanting. Ixchel came quickly to her own hand, then again in the bath when thoughts of Solas became too heady to ignore.

Every movement through the rest of her day was a reminder of her night spent in the Fade. She found her mind wandering there at the most inopportune times, and she was almost glad that she was still meant to be practicing her wards every other night that she remained in Skyhold. Another day so distracted might be disastrous. For while she had the time that day to dally—with the herbalists, with Dagna, with Sutherland and crew newly arrived from the west—there were many other matters that required her utmost concentration.

Speaking with Varric before he left was not one of them, however.

She found him that afternoon in his usual place by the fire in the great hall, working on his correspondence. He didn’t look up when she approached, but he called out:

“Sparkler told me you won the first match of your tourney. Congrats, Your Worship.”

“Don’t call me that, _Master Tethras,_ ” she said with a sharp smile. “This isn’t a tourney.”

“Isn’t it?” he said under his breath.

Ixchel put her hands on her hips. “Come on, Varric.”

He gave her a performative sigh and gathered his work up into a satchel that he then slung over his shoulder. “Lead the way, Brave Guide.”

It did not escape her that he was being awfully distant with her, despite his attempts at humor. She didn’t address it right away; instead, she led him silently out a side door and through the much quieter adjoining hall.

Varric chuckled darkly. “The wine cellar?”

“Private,” she said, and she locked the door behind them.

She immediately reached for a forty of malt liquor and uncorked it with her teeth.

“This’s older than the Maker and smoother than an elven baby’s butt,” she proclaimed as she handed it to her dwarven friend. Then, she sank down to sit on the floor.

She held his gaze until he was forced to take a swig of the liquor. But she did not stop glaring at him, even then.

He put one arm up to lean against a barrel as he stared back at her, but he could only look at her in the face for so long before the guilt came back into his eye. He looked away, then back up at her—then away again. “Shit.”

Ixchel snorted and held out her hand for the bottle.

“You’re not being fair,” she said evenly, and then she raised the liquor to her lips. After a deep drink, she sighed. “You’re either mad I offered you a chance to speak your mind, or because of the mere fact that I’m in a position to be the one who makes these decisions. And that’s unfair.”

She passed the bottle back.

“I’m not mad—”

“You’re not?” she scoffed. “Then never, ever, call me by my titles again!”

Varric winced.

“Andraste hasn’t done _shit_ for me, not the Maker, not the fucking Creators. It’s just me and you people, and I need you to remember that I’m _people_.” She sighed and lowered her hand, though she didn’t look at him. “You and Dorian—”

Ixchel caught herself and covered her suddenly stinging eyes with her hand. No. Dorian had thought she really was the Herald, and now, even after all that had been revealed, she wasn’t sure if that didn’t just reinforce his belief that there was some higher power deciding her fate. And Solas still struggled to believe that he hadn’t somehow created her from wholecloth in the resurrection process. He named her all sorts of things that elevated her from what she was: _Champion, rogasha’ghi’lan, arasha._ No matter how much she liked it, no matter how much she trusted him...it was dangerous, to be given such titles. Everyone else in her life was much the same—she was the Herald, the Inquisitor, and “Ixchel” vanished beneath all of that—

But she was just a girl who had decided she stood for Thedas.

She swallowed roughly. Dorian—the Dorian who had resurrected her, sent her back here—had told her she could kill herself if she really wanted to. And she hadn’t. She could have run away from the fledgling Inquisition, chopped off her arm, and let the world rot. She hadn’t. She could have killed herself as soon as Cassandra had unbound her hands in Haven’s dungeon. But…she hadn’t.

And she hadn’t found the courage to stay, to fight, because she was an impossibility. It wasn’t because of the magic in her arm, or the fragment of an Old God that might be lodged in her chest. She just couldn’t stand by and let the world suffer.

She needed to believe that that drive was not uniquely hers, or unnatural, or divinely inspired.

Not hope.

Believe.

And if she could not get _Varric_ to see that…

She took a breath. “I need someone to remember I’m just a girl.”

Varric’s laugh came out as a jarring bark. “But you’re _not_ ,” he insisted. “That’s…that’s not a bad thing. Someone needs to be larger than life, to inspire. That’s what heroes are.”

“Heroes are the ones who were _inspired_ enough to act! We could all be fucking heroes!” Ixchel’s vision swam as she tried to convey the depth of her feeling. “The world is never going to change, get _better_ , if that’s not true.”

He eyed her cautiously.

“Alright, if that’s the case, why the fuck am I trying, Varric?” she demanded. She raised a hand to her face and groaned. “That’s not what this is about. Okay? I just… I wasn’t asking you to make the decision about Anders, if that’s what made you upset. And if it’s because I’m making the decision at all…” She blew out her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say—”

“I’m… I’m not _mad_ at you. Ixchel…” Varric pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. “Andraste’s fucking… I just don’t know what I feel about Anders. And I don’t know that I _want_ to know, either.”

They passed the bottle of liquor back and forth in silence for a little while.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “Whatever you feel about him, he was once your friend. And whether he wants it or not, it sucks that he’s going to die. Whether we agree with his ultimate goal or not…it sucks he did what he did. It sucks."

Varric lowered himself to join her on the ground and put his head in one hand for a moment. “Look,” he said, mostly to the floor. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not jealous, but I’m not mad. And honestly?” He shrugged, staring down the neck the bottle. “I’m not even sure I disagree with you.”

Ixchel rubbed at her eyes disbelievingly.

“Like, I get it. I get why our Iron Lady wants to go back to how things were. Because you _understand it_. You can survive, maybe, what you can understand.” He sighed. “I don't know what that world of yours is s'posed to look like. All this new stuff you're telling us about Spirits and Demons…and you letting these Chevaliers, these evil generals and shit just go free… I really wish some things could just be right, or wrong. You know?”

Ixchel wiggled her fingers in the direction of the bottle, then raised it in a mock toast as soon as he handed it over. “From your lips,” she said, then took a deep swig.

Varric watched every motion with a bit of a dark glint in his eye. “But then again,” he said contemplatively, “Anders was always the loudest about dealing with Demons. He’d pillory Daisy all the time for tempting fate with the blood magic. He’d go on about how Spirits and Demons were different… And then, after all of that, _he_ was the one who…”

He trailed off, then shook his head. “Maybe believing it was what made it inevitable,” he murmured.

“Things _are_ simple,” Ixchel said after a moment. “They’re rarely _easy_. It’s simple that Mages are people. It’s simple that people should be free. It’s simple that no one should go hungry when the wealthy are letting food go to waste. How the fuck do you make that happen? Write a book?” She raised an eyebrow, her mouth set in a bitter line. “Make sure you remember the ears, by the way.”

He passed the bottle back. “It’s hard to remember you’re not some otherworldly being who’s got it all figured out,” he said, “but it’s _really_ hard to ignore the elf bit.”

With that, Ixchel cheersed him and finished the bottle.


	126. The Sky's the Limit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you magglerock for Betaing!
> 
> Don't forget to check out the tumblr dreadfutures for cute drabbles, WIP art, and meta :)
> 
> Hope you like the chapter!
> 
> 2/20/22

Ixchel found Amund atop a watch tower that evening, after she had mostly sobered up. The Avvar had removed his helm, thus freeing a mop of gray curls. He did not look away from the rising moon on the horizon, even when she came and leaned against the rampart beside him.

Ixchel cast her eyes out across the forces amassed in the valley below them—lights, flickering in the evening’s young shadow. “I am sorry that I haven’t spoken to you sooner, Sky Watcher.”

“Why?” he asked.

She bit her lip. “I believe Amarok is dead. He was our Hold Beast… There must be something I’m meant to do, to honor him—”

Amund cut her off in a gentle voice: “All of it is rendered to the Lady, in time.” He straightened up to his full height and raised his face to the sky. He towered over her, and when he stretched his arm up to point at the first star of the night, it seemed that the giant of the man could reach the very heavens if he tried. “The gods told me how the white wolf won. He learned well, from them and from you. If he is dead, then the gods will see his memory live on in new forms. But he was a part of you, Herald, and it is up to you to honor him in the waking world as you see fit.”

Ixchel stared up at the lone star above them.

She thought of the nights her Hold Beast had appeared in her rooms to offer her comfort. She thought of how frail the wolf cub had been when it had come to her in Crestwood. She thought of how it had grown so quickly—perhaps feeding off of her Regret, to gain the strength to protect her, and to protect Skyhold. She thought of the dreams she had shared with her wolf, with and without Cole, as she ran through the Emerald Graves and across the Exalted Plains and through forgotten and far-off and made up places.

She thought of her first dream of Amarok, in which he had chosen her at Din’an Hanin and became her Guardian.

Ixchel swallowed the sudden sharpness of tears in her throat.

“I would plant a tree.”

The Sky Watcher gave a short, barking laugh. She winced and looked up at him, expecting that she had suggested something inappropriate—it was a Dalish tradition, after all. Instead, she found the massive Avvar augur giving her a wide smile. “It is a tradition I had forgotten, but it is fitting, Herald!” he praised. “Tyrdda Bright-Axe, Avvar-Mother, planted a tree for her leaf-eared lover when she had no body to grant a sky burial. Where shall we remember him?”

A relieved smile broke across her face. “It… It will depend on what specimen I can find,” she admitted. “I would like to find a willow, if I can…”

Amund tilted his head and gave her a frown of concentrated interest; it left cracks in the ritual paint that had dried on his face. “A willow, eh?”

“I’ll work on it.” She sucked in a breath of cold, crisp air and smiled wider. “I’d like to do it in the Dales. He… It was in a dream…”

The augur’s brow cleared. “Then it is right,” he proclaimed. He clapped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze and a shake. “You are familiar with many of our traditions, Herald. Perhaps you were Avvar, before the _hjemrejsen?”_

“What is that?” she asked.

“The return journey. Some souls are chosen by the Lady to return again to this world, after her messengers have taken them to the sky.”

The revelation came so suddenly that she had no hope of schooling her features. Amund watched her curiously as the shock and anxiety played out on her face. “You were not aware?” he asked.

Ixchel bit her lip. “I am,” she said quietly. “I just…didn’t realize you were.” She blew out her cheeks nervously. “Sky Watcher—”

He held up a hand. “Peace, Herald. It is not an augur’s place to reveal such things, either to the returned one or to those around them.”

She leaned against the railing, relieved. “Thank you, Sky Watcher,” she said. Then she cocked her head up at him and smiled. “I was not Avvar-born, but I spent several months with the Stone-Bear Hold and earned my legend-mark among them.”

Amund’s eyebrows shot up. “No wonder the Lady graced you so.”

Ixchel considered him quietly for a moment. She decided to ignore talk of the Lady and instead finally broached the topic she had sought him out for in the first place. “I learned a great deal from Thane Sun-Hair and her augur. In this life, I would bring those lessons back to the rest of Thedas, as Inquisitor.”

“Lessons of the gods?” Amund guessed. “These Andrastians disdain their aide. But I fear that alerting them to their helpfulness risks enslavement.”

“Right,” Ixchel said dubiously.

“It seems their lowlander Chantry does not ask, but takes,” he said thoughtfully.

“Their Chantry is changing. I would change it more,” she said. “They turn so many Mages into Dream-Slain. They fear any help from even Compassion or Faith… They keep their Mages locked in cells almost every waking moment… If I do not teach them of a new way, they will go back to what they know. There might be more fighting, for freedom—but…”

“I see. Þú mæli með wisdomrinn ór móðirr,” Amund said. “It is not possible to avoid every conflict. If it is the will of the Wintersbreath or the Mountain Father… But there may yet be conflict, in the teaching…”

Ixchel looked up at him nervously, and he patted her shoulder again. “The honor of your goal is without question. The Lady returned you, and united us, for a reason. If I may help you in this, I will.”

Ixchel clasped him by the elbow. “Ďakujem, Sky Watcher.”

“Then lead on, Herald. What lessons will you bring them?”

“There is a mage, possessed by what was once Justice. He killed hundreds of people—and now they wish to separate. But the Chantry does not know that that is possible, and so they, being raised in the Chantry, don’t know how.” She glanced at the augur carefully. “I have two great leaders among the mages as my allies. I have the future Divine of the Chantry as my ally. I have leaders of the Chantry Templars as my allies… And they want him dead. The mage also wishes to die… So I have bargained that if they come with me to witness Anders’ and Justice’s separation, I will let them deliver their judgment—execution.”

“And it is Justice still, not Vengeance, that you are releasing to the Fade?”

“Does it matter?” Ixchel asked quietly. “A Spirit can be rebirthed if it’s in the Fade, or if it’s had its own form. But bound inside Anders? My understanding is that it would be destroyed entirely, were he to die.”

Amund nodded. “Aye.”

Thus bolstered, she continued on. “So that is the first lesson. Then, I would like us all to go to Stone-Bear Hold. The Jaws of Hakkon will be giving them trouble, soon, and I would like to given them support and honor against them.” She nodded out at the Frostbacks. “I have told my people—the ones I’d bring, at least—of how Avvar take their teachers within them. That is one of the greatest fears fo the Chantry, and Stone-Bear Hold has many, and they live in peace. I want them to see that. I want them to learn the respect that I have for their Hold Beast, Storvacker. I want them to see…”

“To see with your eyes,” Amund said.

Ixchel nodded.

“Then that is the path we will follow, Herald.” He looked her over from head to toe, then nodded. “I will look for the signs of the Lady of the Skies and consult the gods of Skyhold for their blessings. Let me know when you will be leaving, and I will accompany you.”

The Inquisitor clasped her fist to her breast. “Thank you, Sky Watcher. For all that I want to teach them, I want to learn more,” she said. “I look forward to traveling with you.”

-:-:-:-:-

That night, Ixchel found herself too restless to sleep. She paced slow circuits around her rooms and tried to pinpoint the cause of her anxieties. Tomorrow, Vivienne, Fiona, and Cassandra would publicly declare a new Conclave. The Free Mages, the Loyalists, and the Templars, would begin discussing the future of Thedas—by laying a foundation of _honesty, reparation, forgiveness_. Those were the words Josephine had insisted on, at least, and what she had somehow managed to get the factions to agree to.

That was not what made Ixchel so nervous. The talks that would undoubtedly follow over the course of many months did not worry her too much. If everything went according to plan—she laughed at herself—Vivienne and Fiona and Cassandra would be making decisions with the same information Ixchel had about Spirits and mages, and Ixchel _trusted_ each of them individually to come to appropriately compassionate conclusions.

She decided that she was not concerned about the women very much.

Then who?

Ixchel came to no conclusions in her wandering about the room, so she retired to her bed to meditate. It was there, as she focused on her breathing and erecting mental wards prior to dreaming, that the realization hit her.

And with that realization came a sudden resolve.

She fell into the Fade with a distinct purpose, and she called to the Spirits in Skyhold to help her.

An amorphous wisp was the first to answer her plea; it helped her shape a crumbling wall in the Fade, a vast expanse of sky, filled with smoke and stars. Another lit the bonfires along the stretch of the wall. Wisps gathered as singing voices, revelry in the distance.

And one strident Spirit roused itself from the depths of the Fade and took on a familiar shape. In the lilting accent of the Elvhen, it reminded her of the Dread Wolf’s words:

_I have been afraid for you…_

_But for as much as I have been afraid for you, I have also been afraid of you…_

_Here you stand, facing the same futile choices of the Evanuris…_

_…and when faced with the futility of your mission, you do not act as gods do…_

Ixchel listened to this Spirit (Purpose, perhaps, or Wisdom, or Introspection?) with all her focus. And as the memory drew to a close, rain began to fall on the smoldering ruins of Halamshiral.

Solas’s imitated form was swept away by the rain, and the Spirit who had willingly impersonated him drew closer to Ixchel.

“He comes to me as though the Fade were just another wooded path to walk without a care in search of Wisdom,” it said in the same musical voice. “We share the ancient memories, the feelings lost. Forgotten dreams, unseen for ages, now beheld in wonder… But these were always present: the doubts, the tests, the trials. These were always necessary, to produce the wonders upon which we reflect.”

Wisdom wrapped itself around Ixchel and whispered Envy’s words:

“Our reach begins to match my ambition. We will strive for more… Who would stand against us, when the Inquisition commands nations? When the Chantry fell, we despaired. But the Herald of Andraste gave us light!”

The demon’s voice echoed in the hollow, hard places in Ixchel’s heart.

“As long as people are free, they are free to be cruel. _That_ is the gamble of sentience. _Is. It. Not?”_

Ixchel’s _soul_ ached. She clung to Wisdom. “I can’t do this alone,” she replied, as she had before.

“You are working on Trust,” said Wisdom, and it summoned aide.

Curiosity, Passion, Valor approached then—and gentle Wisdom identified each of them, for they had each taken on a different form:

Dorian.

Sera.

Cullen.

They stood before Ixchel in terrible silence.

Wisdom braced Ixchel by the shoulders as she faced them.

“Name this one Trust,” the Spirit whispered, pointing at Dorian.

And Ixchel found that she smiled a little, for how easy it was for her to summon the words—and the belief in the words—as she looked at Dorian now. There was no one whose heart she was more certain of, no one whose capability so aligned with his _intent_ that she would trust the fate of the world in their hands—no one more so than Dorian.

“I trust you,” she said.

“Name this one Trust,” Wisdom said, and it pointed at Sera.

Ixchel stared at the Spirit for a very, very long time. She reflected on the times the girl had saved her life. She reflected on how Sera had so ardently advocated for Fairbanks, so _viciously_ uprooted the Freemen of the Dales. And she remembered Sera running across the burning rooftops of Halamshiral, nose bloodied by a Chevalier no doubt, and the puckish way she had told Ixchel to put out the fires for the good of the People.

“I trust you,” Ixchel said to Sera.

“Name this one Trust,” Wisdom said, pointing at Cullen.

It was the sight of her Commander that undid the last of her defenses. The Spirit who reflected him had captured his gentle eyes, the lines left on his face by sorrow and anger, the strength in his shoulders.

Ixchel’s heart broke at the thought of losing his trust.

Wisdom enveloped Ixchel in a sense of security, a sense of knowledge. “To speak it is to will it,” Wisdom said. “To will it, is to hope.”

“Hope can become belief,” Ixchel told herself.

“Name this one Trust,” Wisdom urged.

And so she did. She trusted Cullen’s heart. She trusted his sense of honor. She trusted Cullen’s desire to be a good man.

“I trust you, Cullen.”

-:-:-:-:-

Bright and early the next morning, Ixchel strode out of her quarters and stood before her throne. A crowd had been gathered to witness the exchanges: the Loyalist Mages, the Free Mages, and the Seekers and Templars, were to publicly unite in their condemnation of the terrorism in Kirkwall and in eastern Fereldan. Josephine had worked her magic and worked out a statement that each faction could agree upon, without capitulating any of the Inquisition’s goals or values (or, rather, Ixchel’s). It wasn’t a particularly climactic moment, if the agreement were looked at purely for its substance.

But, as she so rarely did, Ixchel agreed that the pomp and circumstance of it was what mattered. So she stood before her throne and listened to the proclamations.

Vivienne spoke first and reiterated the many blessings that mages and the Circles had brought to bear for the peoples of Thedas. Magic must serve man, of course, and it had for centuries. Cassandra spoke next, for both Seekers and Templars. In her clarion voice she bore witness to the Templar crimes she had been witness to as a Seeker, and during her time in the Inquisition. She quoted from the Chant of Light and mourned the fact that all mages at many Circles had been actively deprived of the means to receive the Maker’s justice. She came within a hair’s breadth of saying that the Templars’ treatment of mages within the Circles had caused the events in Kirkwall.

And finally, Fiona addressed Anders’ actions. She emphasized that Anders had been known in Kirkwall as a benevolent healer and advocate for the poorest of the poor and the most in need. She spoke as one who had witnessed his handiwork, met his patients. And then she spoke of the fear and despair that mages felt, and how even one who called themselves Justice might find none available except for a world-shattering cry for help.

Fiona mourned that it had come to this—but praised those gathered to begin “a new Conclave” for peace.

Together, they condemned the event, the threat of the Exalted March that had been levied in the wake of it, and the bloodshed that ensued.

Ixchel had a good view of the faces among the gathered factions. She decided that most of what she saw as the morning progressed was _anxiety_. She understood, of course. The Templars had been raised to fear mages. Each was a maleficar waiting to emerge. And even worse…a maleficar who had been _wronged_. The mages, of course, still did not trust the freedoms they had been given in the Inquisition. And, Ixchel thought as she looked over their suspicious glances, they were now being asked to work alongside some of the very same Templars who had potentially abused them in the past.

There was one face Ixchel pointedly did not seek out in the proceedings.

Throughout the speeches, Ixchel’s thoughts wandered. She could not help but see Cole’s face and ache for the poor young man who had been left to die as afraid of his own magic as the world around him was afraid of him. She ached for the Tranquil who couldn’t say no to anything they were propositioned for. She ached for the Tranquil whose skulls she found scattered across the landscape, slaughtered by Venatori at the very moment of possession—now, she knew, at the very moment their Tranquility was broken. The very moment they were returned to themselves…only to be taken away. What fear they must have felt, after suffering so long only to surface into such danger—

Ixchel found her eyes burning, and she blinked rapidly to clear them of tears before anyone were to notice.

When the statements had been given and Ixchel announced that she found the agreement suitable and worthy, she ended their audience with this:

“Each of us is here, within the Inquisition, to stand against the evils in Thedas’s past and fight for a safe future. By working together… Listening to each others’ pain and feeling it as our own… Taking ownership of our hurtful actions and vowing to harm no more—and looking for that spark of hope, that chance of good, even in the darkest corners of the mortal heart… We will make sure the future we fight for is brighter than any we could have imagined yet.”

Ixchel swept out of the great hall and into Josephine’s office, then the war room, to meet with her advisers as they had agreed upon.

Or so she thought.

For none, but one, followed.

As soon as Ixchel realized that Cullen had come to her alone, she felt her heart stop dead in its cage.

But Cullen did not storm. He did not rage. He did not even _sweep_. Cullen walked to the center of the room with slow, wary steps; he did not take his eyes off of her as he approached, brow lined with deep concern and caution.

The doors closed heavily behind him. He stopped.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “About—all of this.”

Ixchel sucked in a deep breath—but found no words worthy of an explanation. She stood frozen in front of the war table and stared not at his face but at his breastplate. At the soft fabrics he had affixed to it—the drape and flow of them so like Circle robes and so unlike a Templar’s tabard.

“I was afraid—”

“Of what?” he cut in sharply. His hand flew to his hair. “Maker, I know that look… Afraid of _me?_ Ixchel—”

“I’m afraid of _hurting_ you,” she blurted, and as soon as the words left her lips, she decided they were the wrong ones. A shadow passed across his weary face, and the weight on his shoulders only increased.

He stared at her with clearly rising frustration amid his exhaustion. When he spoke again, his voice was hard. “I will need you to explain that to me.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks instantly, and just like that, under his cutting gaze the truth snapped into focus: by assuming the worst, she had hurt him exactly as she feared she would by telling him the truth outright.

His eyes roved across her face and undoubtedly made note of the rising blush. She grimaced and scrubbed her hand against her cheeks to disperse her flush. The words _I’m sorry_ were on her lips, but she thought, miserably, that they might be more wrong words.

“I’m upending the foundation of the Chantry, Cullen,” she said bitterly. “I’m saying the foundation of your entire life is wrong.” She crossed her arms and looked down at her feet. “And it’s exactly what Envy showed me…”

Cullen seemed taken aback. “Envy? At Therinfal Redoubt?” He drew a step closer. “What do you mean this is what Envy showed you?”

“I’ve barely told anyone,” she admitted. “I was so concerned with saving the Templars and making sure they didn’t reject our protection simply because we had _also_ allied with the Mages…”

Ixchel shook her head slowly and lowered her gaze to the floor.

“It showed me what it would do with the power of the Inquisition, if it were to possess me. It showed me as a tyrant… It showed me demanding unconditional surrender from our enemies, only to slaughter them.”

“It missed the mark by far,” Cullen said darkly. “You are _not_ that woman.”

She tightened her grip on her own crossed arms and winced. “Maybe it was equal parts intimidation and temptation. Because it also showed me worshipers flocking to my banner… It showed me that if I could command nations, I could enforce my will. My vision for Thedas.”

She drew a shuddering breath. “But it showed me my allies, betrayed by my decisions, cursing my name… It showed me your death—over, and over, and over again.” Ixchel looked back up at Cullen. “It showed me how you might kill me.”

There was horror on Cullen’s face, but there was also a quiet kind of guilt. She knew its origins well enough.

“And now…” Ixchel turned to look into the weak morning sunlight that streamed in through the windows. It fell across her face but did not warm her. “You all _knowingly_ chose a heretical Dalish savage as your Inquisitor. But… I’m still waiting for a decision that will be too much. Or for a decision that seems to discount your experiences entirely…when that isn’t the case…”

“So then what _is_ the case, Ixchel?” he asked behind her.

“I remember what you told me about Kinloch, Cullen,” she said. “I care about you, for the man you are, and what you have suffered… You have found what you believe is good in this world and are grasping for it… And I’m ruining it.”

Cullen’s hand came to rest upon her shoulder.

He did not turn her to face him. Instead, they looked out at the Frostbacks in silence. And somehow, beneath the heavy, warm weight of his gauntlet on her shoulder, a sense of peace filled Ixchel.

“You’re a good man, Cullen Rutherford,” she said softly.

“It…means a lot that you think so, Inquisitor,” he replied.

Ixchel exhaled, long and slow, and tried to release her misgivings with her breath. “I believe it,” she said, “but it’s…so hard for me to _trust_. I was afraid… Twice I stole revenge from you, for your brothers and sisters in the Order, against Samson. And the things that I will reveal as Inquisitor, the beliefs I will challenge—I am not only upsetting your way of life… I’m saying that it was _wrong_. And no matter what I believe, no matter how I trust…I don’t want to hurt you. Even if it’s true.”

Cullen’s hand remained on her shoulder.

She closed her eyes and relied upon that feeling as an anchor.

“I’ve lived through enough to know what being hurt is really like,” he said. “I’ve lived through enough—Maker, _more_ than enough—to know…the world is changing.” Cullen sighed, and she felt his breath stir her hair. “Or maybe it was never what I thought it was.”

Ixchel’s heart wrenched, and she started to turn—but his grip on her shoulder tightened, and she fell still.

“I’m still sorry,” she admitted.

“I know.”

She could imagine how he was looking at her now, though she did not turn to see for herself. She could hear it in his voice, just as she had as he carried her outside of Halamshiral—when he had looked upon her with eyes shining with such faith…

“If I have a problem with your leadership, I will tell you,” he promised. “I have my concerns about what—I won’t call it naivety, but…the lack of safeguards, if you will, for young mages… I will voice them, when it is time. And when I do, I know you will listen.”


	127. Mien'harel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/23/22

The war meeting that followed was tense, but Ixchel hoped that it was due to her advisers’s totally appropriate concern about the gravity of the challenges ahead of them—and not due to the sheer mountain of heresy they were about to put their names on.

“Still no news from Wycome?” Josephine asked Leliana near the end of the meeting. Ixchel looked up at her hopefully and found the Seneschal looking a little startled.

“Oh, yes, actually,” said Leliana. She reached into her tunic to withdraw a thick envelope; guilt streaked across her face as she hurried to hand it over. “Forgive me, Inquisitor—it is not that I deemed the matter less important…”

“No, don’t apologize,” Ixchel said absently as she held out her hand for the document. But just before it touched her fingers, Ixchel withdrew her hand and took a step back. “Actually, could you…”

“Of course.” Leliana’s voice was soft, and she gave Ixchel a pained look; the Inquisitor turned back to the war table and braced herself against it with two hands.

“ _‘Ambassador Montilyet,_ ’” Leliana began.

 _“‘Duke Antoine has been a most charming and gracious host, and has made himself a friend, indeed, to the Inquisition. His city is a wonder, and he was quite keen to display some of the improvements he has made recently. Of particular note are the wells, which use a_ red crystal _to purify the water from which_ all humans _in the city drink.’”_

Cullen let loose a particularly heretical curse that made Josephine quack in surprise. Ixchel hunched further over the map, and her elbows shook—the room was starting to spin around her. “Red lyrium,” she said hollowly. “The duke has given them the fucking _Blight?”_

“And apparently he has _not_ made these improvements to the wells from which the elves in the alienage drink,” Leliana said as she read ahead. She drew closer to Ixchel and lay a hand on her shoulder while she continued to read. _“‘The duke assures me that concerns about some sort of disease affecting his city are wholly overblown, and has quite convinced me that his plans to rid the city of ‘the rats causing the problem’ should be underway quite soon.’”_

Leliana’s hand on her shoulder had tightened painfully, but Ixchel hardly felt it. She stared down at her own white knuckles where she gripped the edge of the table. Every thought she’d had, every plan she’d made, over the past several hours had left her head. _Fuck the Chantry—let it crumble under the weight of its lies. I have to go._

“I have to go,” Ixchel said. “I have to—”

“Yes,” Leliana said. “But Anders—”

“And the dragon in the mountains?”

“And—”

Ixchel pushed away from the war table and rounded on her advisers with a desperate plea in her eye.

Josephine’s hand was tight around her quill, and for a moment she stared down at her notes with a dark frown. But then, suddenly, she raised her eyes to Ixchel’s. Ixchel was taken aback by the fire in her Ambassador’s gaze. “What of the eluvians?” Josephine suggested breathlessly. “We could move one to Wycome quickly—two weeks, at most.”

Ixchel snapped her fingers as she began to pace. Two weeks was a long time. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though that might block out the slaughter she had only imagined when she had heard of the clan’s complete annihilation. But she needed to focus; she was a strategist, she was _theirs_ , and she must triumph. She knew the stakes, but she could not let the weight of them drag her down.

Two weeks was a _long_ time.

She needed to be there, _now_.

She needed to know Terinelan was alive.

It could be happening now, the purge, as they spoke—

“The Marquise of the Dales might have one there already,” she said. “Or—Merrill, Merill has an eluvian. Wherever she is, if she’s in the Marches—she’d want to help, I know it. She’s closer than we are. Faster.”

She turned sharply to face the door, but she leaned back and gripped the table behind her as though to keep herself from running right out to catch Varric down the road before he went too far. He was already half a day’s ride ahead of her, with Sera and Thom. But maybe someone in Kirkwall knew where Merrill was. Or Varric could send a letter himself, if her ravens could reach _him_ in time—

“We can send one of our elven agents to the Marquise immediately,” Leliana said to calm her. “We can get a response before nightfall, and we can attempt to locate Merrill immediately if that lead goes cold.”

Ixchel caught Cullen’s eye, and he stepped forward. “Ixchel, if the city is using _red lyrium_ , this may be more than something a few knives in the back can handle. Assassinations might even ignite worse violence. We should send forces to Wycome, defend the alienage, and take out whatever Venatori have infiltrated the city.”

She nodded, mouth set in a hard line, but Leliana waved a hand to stop them both. “No, no—Josephine’s diplomat advises against direct force,” she said quickly. She handed the letter to Cullen, who gritted his teeth and shook his head as he read it. Leliana crossed her arms. “Inquisitor, even if we locate an eluvian inside Wycome’s walls _tonight_ , we must still think strategically. Whatever the outcome, there may be retaliation from neighboring cities. Without an Empress to unite their response and provide reparations, we must enforce peace, provide resources—herbs, lyrium, _food_ , potentially. This must be a coordinated—”

Cullen interjected in a sudden growl. “I’m saying that with enough of a force, we could prevent violence, but you would let it happen so we could clean up after?”

“That is not what I was saying,” Leliana said sharply.

“So you would not send forces, to defend the people—but you would suggest we take over Wycome in its wreckage, the same way that _Starkhaven_ is annexing Kirkwall?” Cullen shook his head disbelievingly. “After all the Inquisitor has done to deny that she seeks a crown, you would make her a Marcher lord?”

“I’m not interested in arguing right now,” Ixchel said with an angry wave of her hand. “If they don’t want forces, what do they want? Is there anything else in the letter? Any requests?”

“Chatter,” he said dismissively. _“‘I continue to enjoy my visit to Wycome, and I confess that I hope I do not hear the noisy clatter of the Inquisition's armored troops ruining my quiet afternoons. The elves of Clan Lavellan, by contrast, are quiet, like their poor cousins here in Wycome's alienage, and it might be a welcome change to my daily regime to see them in the future.’”_

Ixchel hung her head forward, resting her chin on her chest, and she took a deep breath through her nose. “That’s not chatter,” she breathed. “She wants the Clan to infiltrate the city.” And they’d do it, she knew, though her heart _shouted_ in her chest at the thought of putting the clan in harm’s way. But she knew Deshanna—and Ter. _Ter_. After their last exchange, she wouldn’t be surprised to find that he was _already_ agitating in the alienage…

She ran both hands across her face. “Gods above and below,” she groaned between her fingers. “Mercy for the elves…”

“What about…” Josephine hesitated, lips parted. Then, she set down her clipboard entirely and began to pace as well; she gestured in quick, sharp motions with her hands as she continued, and her voice rose with excitement with every word. “Let us prove to the non-elven community leaders already _within_ the alienage that the Duke has poisoned the wells of the upper quarter. _‘He will do this to yours soon enough, and turn you against each other with racial in-fighting!_ ’ we’ll tell them. We need not shelter them from this information! Then…if they want, they can fight for their own safety and protect one another—we can get Briala, and the union within Halamshiral, to support them just as Leliana said, but in such a way that it is not _our fight._ It is completely theirs.”

Ixchel’s eyes flew open. Gratitude swelled so suddenly in her chest, it choked her. “I’m rubbing off on you, Josie,” she said in disbelief.

Josephine gave her a brilliant smile. “Yes, well, I have always been one to stay on top of trends,” she quipped, but her hand shook as she tucked a flyaway hair behind her ear.

Ixchel laughed, perhaps too enthusiastically if the look Leliana and Cullen shared was any indicator.

“But yes,” Josephine continued. “Marquise Briala _should_ support this. She already coordinated a rebellion behind Celene’s back, and she can do so again!”

“If it is revealed that _she_ is involved, she is smart enough to use the publicity to prove her dedication to her own people in the non-noble classes,” Leliana said. “But Celene is already struggling to quell malcontents in the court after Briala’s elevation.”

“If she punishes Briala, Celene will have a nationwide revolution on her hands,” Ixchel said grimly. “And they outnumber the imperial court thrice over.”

Josephine’s spirits continued to rise unabated. ”Regardless, if we have need to evacuate the city, this time, Varric’s friend has—somehow, Maker knows—managed to coordinate refugee movements across the Marches—”

Leliana struggled to hide the small, proud smile that Josephine had garnered from her; Ixchel saw it for only a split second before Leliana met Ixchel's eye, and it faded instantly. There was too much to address now. “We have our goals. Let us ground them in reality now, in detail,” Leliana suggested. “If we cannot find access to an eluvian across the Waking Sea, then moving the ones we have will require our most trusted and capable soldiers,” she told Cullen. “Do we have the means? By sea, by land…?”

Cullen immediately headed to the map, and Ixchel followed quickly in his wake.

“You were planning on coordinating with Harding, in the Basin?” he checked. “If you take a cart with you—and the eluvian that Madame de Fer has escorted here—you’ll reach Harding in a week. Complete the business with Anders and gain your foothold in the Basin among the Avvar. How long do you believe that will take? You know their customs better than any of us.”

She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. She had planned on having Amund help her with Anders and Justice, then continue on to Stone-Bear Hold to gain their friendship and offer her support against the Jaws—if the Jaws had not yet descended upon the hold—and obtain their own aide in freeing Hakkon before Corypheus could reach him.

At the very least, she would reach Anders and free Justice, then return via eluvian. At minimum that would be a few days—

No—no, if she could get the Stone-Bear Hold on her side, then they could help her forces establish camps throughout the Basin and head off the Venatori and the Jaws alike. If she could do that, then she might feel comfortable leaving for Wycome and allowing Hakkon and Ameridan to hang in stasis for a little longer.

“I’ll need a week within the hold,” she said, and she tried to inject a note of confidence into her voice. Because she could only hope that with a Sky Watcher leading her and her previous knowledge, she might be able to earn their favor in such a short time.

“Alright. A week’s travel, a week in the hold.” He paused, then moved two markers in opposite directions. “As Ambassador Montilyet said, in two weeks we could have an eluvian moved to Wycome. Perhaps directly, by sea, but moving such cargo through Wycome’s own docks would be difficult without getting our forces identified. Instead, I would suggest that we get an eluvian to Jader first, then to Kirkwall. We know that the Inquisition has allies in the city, and they can look the other way. Wycome cannot know we are coming. We could send it along with additional troops to support Aveline—it would be good timing… Moving an eluvian from Kirkwall to Wycome will be take a little more than a week by carriage. As soon as it is in place, you can take the eluvian from the Basin to Wycome, with or without a stop in Skyhold for resources.”

Cullen looked up at Ixchel. “But during those two weeks, Leliana’s agents positioned within the clan and the alienage can attempt to sway the community. We can insist on daily reports from our agents positioned with your clan outside the city. We can counsel them, based on our experience in Halamshiral, about strategies—in case fighting breaks out before we arrive. But nevertheless, you have two weeks, unless an eluvian turns up in Wycome tomorrow. And, Maker, I pray that it does.”

Ixchel skirted around the table before she even realized what she was doing, and she tugged him into a hug.

He flinched backward reflexively, and she would have let him go—but almost just as quickly, he recovered and returned her hug with a crushing embrace.

“I trust you,” she said into his cuirass.

“We will do everything in our power to prevent another alienage purge,” Josephine said from behind them. “And we will keep your clan safe. I swear it.”

“I have one suggestion, Inquisitor,” Leliana said.

Ixchel released Cullen—after giving him one more squeeze—then faced her spymaster. The former bard now stood with her hands clasped behind her back, and her eyes were on the windows behind them.

“Allow me to send the messenger to the Marquise and brief her on the situation,” Leliana said. “I know that you wish to impress this upon her yourself, but it will be good for the fledgling Dales if she can play a larger role in supporting this effort. But for that to happen—and successfully, at that—she will need some time to assess what she can do through official channels, or how she can maneuver around them.”

Ixchel swallowed. Her pulse raced in her ears as though she had already run all the way down to the garden, through the eluvian, and out into the heart of Halamshiral again. Part of her wanted to scream: _this is peoples’ lives, not the Game!_

But it wasn’t the Grand Game that Leliana was describing. This was logistics, and giving Briala the chance to prove herself to her people. This wasn’t unnecessary politicking—it was setting everything up so that Wycome’s alienage, and Clan Lavellan, would be well-supported in the days to come.

“She has until tomorrow at nightfall,” Ixchel said. “Cullen, we’ll be needing more troops in the Basin to pick up where I leave off. Let’s make it happen.”

She took a deep breath. “And thank you. All of you.”

-:-:-:-:-

Briala was escorted to Ixchel’s quarters by Jana in the early hours of the morning.

Ixchel had not even changed for bed at the end of the day. She knew that no matter how she meditated, she would not be able to sleep—and given how her waking thoughts were filled with the imagined massacre of Clan Lavellan, she knew her dreams would not be restful regardless. She busied herself with reading the declarations of the Free Mages, though by the time the sky had begun to lighten, she was so tired that she had to reread each sentence several times over before truly seeing it.

As soon as the loud rapping reached her ears, she launched herself across her room and down the stairs. She threw open the door so quickly that poor Jana nearly fell over in fright, but the Marquise remained as cool as ever.

 _“‘Ma serannas,_ Jana,” Ixchel said with a deep bow in the agent’s direction. The elven woman flushed and bowed right back.

And Briala strode past them both and headed up the stairs.

Ixchel ran after her. “Do you want a drink, Marquise?” Ixchel asked.

“I think you need a drink,” Briala replied. “So I will gladly join you with whatever you are having.”

Ixchel gave her a dark smile and went to serve them both. Briala wasted no more time with pleasantries, and as the woman began to speak, some of the wild panic in Ixchel’s breast eased. She even had to hang her head and breathe a sigh of relief in-between pouring their glasses, for how deeply affected she was by Briala’s presence beside her.

“I do not have eluvians within the Marches. My network seems to lead primarily to places in Orlais—or places so far-flung across ancient Elvhenan, that we have not identified where on the continent they might be,” Briala said. “If your agents can bring even one of the eluvians you borrowed from me near to Wycome, here is what I can offer you.”

Briala paused, and though her voice never wavered, and she never seemed to breathe any more deeply—Ixchel saw the way her shoulders straightened a little more, her chin tipped up higher, as though she was consciously reminding herself that she was not a servant. Even so many years later, she was training herself not to be a servant, a slave by another name.

The new Marquise accepted a tumbler of liquor from Ixchel and raised it in her direction. “In consultation with both the Union and the Guild, the people of Halamshiral pledge their support for Wycome’s alienage. I will share one additional eluvian waypoint where we keep some stores of food, medicine, clothing, and blankets. If it becomes necessary to evacuate the alienage, we will accept refugees into the Dales—on one condition.”

Ixchel held her breath.

“If it seems the enemy may come too close…one of your agents must destroy the eluvian in Wycome so entirely, it cannot ever be pieced back together,” Briala said in a voice that left no room for protest; her face—bare, tonight—was sufficiently grave to tell Ixchel that they both understood the _loss_ that this promise implied.

“I agree,” Ixchel said quietly.


	128. The Fight Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/25/21

Briala held Ixchel’s gaze a moment longer, then inclined her head in the direction of the balcony. They headed out into the cool night, and Briala settled herself against the railing, face turned to the breeze. Ixchel’s head felt heavy after her long, anxious vigil; instead of standing beside Briala, she immediately lowered herself to the ground, let her legs hang between the railing, and rested her cheek against the cool stone barrier.

They looked out across the Frostbacks in silence for a few moments. The sky was still dark, but atop the mountain to the east the slightest sliver of dawn had already begun to encroach.

“Have the assassins come yet, Inquisitor?” Briala asked suddenly.

Ixchel looked up warily to find the woman smirking down into her drink.

“I will take that as a ‘no,’” said the Marquise. “Then I will deliver a friendly warning. Your people are causing trouble for Celene high and low. In the halls of the nobility, a new precedent has been set… But this latest trend has only driven their vitriol back into the shadows, Inquisitor.”

“Hence the assassins,” Ixchel murmured.

Briala swirled her glass. “They know who is responsible for the sea change.”

Ixchel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “If they kill me, that will only spark—”

“They know this too,” Briala said curtly. “They simply see no other way to maintain their way of life, except to play the Game as they always have. But it is not simply assassinations I would bring to your attention. It will not be long before they look to Celene’s prior example and preemptively purge the alienages. Perhaps that is exactly what the Duke of Wycome is doing now in the Marches.”

The Inquisitor’s gaze dropped back to the valley below, at the tents and barracks of her forces scattered in the snow. Even here, she could see the bright colors of the Orlesian forces that had joined the Inquisition, and she suddenly wondered about the loyalty of the Chevaliers in her ranks. How were they treating her other soldiers, her elven agents? Did they keep to themselves, or was there friction in the increasingly mixed ranks of the Inquisition? Would Cullen tell her, if he knew? Would he know?

Ixchel set down her glass with a heavy clink. “Have there been any tangible changes for the alienages? Anywhere at all?” she asked as she dug the heels of her palms into her eyes again.

“No.” Briala took a sip of her drink and grimaced either at the burn of the liquor or her distaste for what she was about to say. “No other walls have been taken down. The lords refuse to bargain with the alienage unions that have formed. And so the people have begun to weave flowers into their hair, and they speak of the ‘Herald’s Way.’ Elves have risen up in the communities, calling for _mien’harel_ and citing the Dread Wolf’s blessing.”

Ixchel looked sharply up at Briala. The Marquise’s keen eyes were dark and opaque when Ixchel found them; they did not reveal the woman's thoughts, or her humor. “The Dread Wolf’s blessing?” Ixchel repeated, and at last a flicker of surprise crossed Briala’s face. “Are those not your people, Briala?”

“They are not _yours?”_

The two women stared at each other.

Ixchel’s stomach lurched.

_Why hasn’t he told me?_

“Maybe it’s an organic adaptation,” Ixchel said slowly, though she could not hide the suspicion from her voice. Briala likewise seemed to have her doubts, though Ixchel was fairly certain that Briala still did not know of Fen’Harel’s existence or that of his organization. “From the moment they named me Herald, I knew people would use me however they wanted. So let them crown themselves with flowers if it inspires them to fight. Let them speak of your tale of the slow arrow and invoke Fen’Harel’s name. I have accepted that whoever I was—whoever _we_ were, Briala… We are Champions now, for the people. We are theirs already.”

“Ah.” Briala gave her a hollow smile. “I have come to a different conclusion. I, the Empress’s pet elf, am never going to inspire the revolution.”

Ixchel opened her mouth to reassure her, but Briala cut her off sharply. “That _is_ what they say of me. The title Celene gave me is necessary to prevent a backslide into how things were. But they are right. By giving me the Dales, Celene inadvertently absolved the rest of Orlais from following in our footsteps. The Marquise of the Dales cannot agitate for revolution. I can support the union in Halamshiral, negotiate where taxes are diverted, what public works to sponsor, enact labor laws… But it does not help anyone outside my borders.”

A note of frustration had leaked into her voice, but nevertheless the line of Briala’s spine straightened with every word. She leaned away from the railing and stared down at Ixchel fiercely. “My image may be beyond my control. But I did not give up my agents when I took this role, and I have been preparing the alienages across Orlais for the day that revolution comes. The pieces are in place. I believe the time is right, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel looked up at Briala with a pride that almost rivaled her own fears for the future.

Almost.

“The people chafe,” Briala said vehemently, “but too many remember how Celene put down the first rebellion. The naysayers can excuse what happened after the ball as a fluke—because of the favor of the Empress, or the influence of Andraste, or the opportunity provided by the Elder One’s chaos…”

“They must see it succeed again,” Ixchel agreed.

She slowly leaned back onto her elbows and looked up at the sky, as though that might free her of the pressure in Briala’s gaze. But of course, she had already felt the urgency of this moment before Briala had arrived. It had preoccupied her all night, how vitally important it was that her plans succeed in Wycome.

And as her gaze wandered across the sky, she thought she could make out Servani among them—the Chained Man—arrayed all above her. The sight of the bent back, the ball-and-chain, grated at her frayed nerves. Looking upon it, she was filled with a dull, simmering anger that brought tears of frustration to her eyes.

Ixchel let loose a harsh breath.

“If I believed in a god,” she said around the bitter knot in her throat, “I would ask for your prayers, Briala. For Wycome.”

“Who needs prayer,” said Briala dryly, “when you have two elves and an eluvian?”

-:-:-:-:-

It had been a long night. A long several days. Weeks. _Year_. She had _just_ told Solas that she could not muster the anger at her resurrection anymore, but the frustration and futility she felt in that moment rendered her a liar.

She was tired and angry, and she was tired of being angry.

Ixchel had wanted to confront Solas immediately after Briala had left, but a cynical part of her whispered that that would show the Dread Wolf all her cards. He would know exactly how to respond to her, lie to her—

She squashed that part of her as viciously as she could. She would _not_ keep even more secrets from him, as though he were a danger, an enemy. She would not hide the fact that she had found out his agents were agitating for revolutions across Thedas. She would give him the chance to explain his plan.

For all she knew, he could have wanted to tell her about this weeks ago, when he had offered to point out who among the Inquisition were loyal to him. He had _offered_.

Or maybe he had wanted to help her in this way, keep it off of her plate out of consideration for the mountain of responsibility that was heaped upon her.

And, after all, he had come to her so desperately in the night, looking for stories of hope—

She trusted that he was not trying to subvert _her_ agenda. She trusted that he was not trying to end the world.

Sometimes it was easier to trust in him than others. But with every inch of her aching and angry, she found herself storming down from her quarters in search of a more productive outlet.

When she opened the door to the great hall and saw her throne sitting directly ahead of her, she drew up short.

How often had he spoken to her about accepting she could not control everything? Was this a _test_ of her trust…?

She ground her teeth and kept walking. The thought of dipping into the Fade to ask him as soon as possible had crossed her mind, but with how _tired_ she was, she wasn’t certain she would be able to dream lucidly enough to find him. And it was daylight, now—he might not even be dreaming.

She _missed_ him. Perhaps it was a natural reaction, to try and harden her heartache at his absence. But the answer was not to fill the hole with suspicion and anger.

It would be some time yet before she could leave Skyhold, for her entourage needed time to prepare. But she had nothing to prepare herself—she had hardly unpacked since she returned. Her fingers _itched_ to do something, to _hurt_ something, to feel effectual in some way.

So Ixchel went to go blow off steam with the only other person she knew wouldn’t question her.

At least, not much.

She tied up her hair as she entered the Herald’s Rest. It was early enough in the morning that Bull was one of the only occupants; Ixchel tossed a jerk of her chin in acknowledgment of Cabot setting glasses down on the bar, then kicked out in the Iron Bull’s general direction.

He had taken one look at her and was already on his feet.

Ixchel stomped out to the training ring—deserted, this early—and picked up one of the wooden longswords on the rack nearby. She swung it testily in an arc that cut the air and left a low growl in its wake.

“Where’s your armor, Champ?”

“Shut up and hit me,” Ixchel snapped, and she locked her left hand behind her back.

Bull assessed her from her bare toes to her unadorned crown, with his one eye lingering on her face. Ixchel held her breath, afraid he’d say something else about how this was a bad idea. But thankfully, he turned and picked up the same long, weighted stick that, in another life, he’d asked her to beat him with, and questioned her no further.

She clenched her fist that held the Anchor and shifted her grip on the longsword in her right hand.

As soon as Bull’s first swing came her way, Ixchel’s anger vanished. The tension in her face melted away with the tension in her body—there was no space for it, when she needed to be loose, limber, lightning fast. She focused on dodging first. She tried to remember the body that had only one hand; she tried to remember the weight of it, how gravity led her in different directions, how she had needed to adjust her balance in those early days, months, years.

It was a task to keep the tip of the longsword off the ground as she moved, with only one wrist to support its weight. She felt her arm extend to overcompensate as a counterweight—and she fought that urge, for she needed to keep her arm close lest it become more of a target than it already was.

She slipped back away from another _heavy_ swing from Bull’s bat. _Slip back, don’t sidestep_. With one hand on her sword, _blocking_ was not the name of the game. She couldn’t always rely on her thick Champion’s armor when traveling incognito—Inquisitor no more. She couldn’t raise the sword and brace it against a blow.

Not that one could ever really brace against a _Qunari_.

She had had to rely so much more on her legs in those days, after she’d lost the Anchor. Gone were her heavy swings. Now—now she lunged. She rolled. She slipped. She sprang.

Bull had not managed to hit her once, though she’d had a few close calls once he seemed to understand she was practicing her evasion. She could feel sweat trickling down her heaving chest as she ducked under a lateral swing—the _whir_ of the blow through the air cooled her heated brow, but before she could sink fully into her crouch, she dug in her heel and _pushed_ forward, into Bull’s path. Her face dipped just above the ground as she drove her shoulder into Bull’s ankle, wrapped her right arm around his boot, and kept charging.

The Iron Bull roared as he went tipping forward, legs literally pulled out from under him.

He caught himself on the fence, and as soon as she felt the resistance, she released his foot and spun around, sword hand braced against the dirt, ready to uncoil her body again in any direction.

Bull did not immediately return to their match. He turned, wiped some sweat from his lip, and tilted his head in her direction.

“Stop psychoanalyzing me!”

Her chagrin was real, but there was a laugh in her voice, too. Her pulse was wild in her ears, and her limbs hummed with energy that still needed a target.

The Iron Bull’s lip curled even as he chuckled. “Tell me what we’re working on, Champ.”

“Well, now I’m going to try and hit _you_ ,” she explained breathlessly.

“Fair,” he huffed, and they squared off again.

Despite being a fairly large target, hitting the Iron Bull was not always easy. For one thing—hitting him did not mean he stopped trying to hit _you_. And that might not have been much of an impediment for Ixchel normally, given her experience fighting colossi like Behemoths and Avvar war lords and Qunari. But so much of that fighting style involved quick shimmies and turns that were normally propelled by the swing of one arm, or both—a fine balancing act between leaning back _enough_ and leaning back _too far._

This was where she ended up knocked on her ass more than once.

Bull knew better than to try and help her up. The second time it happened, he didn’t even stop trying to hit her.

Ixchel bared her teeth viciously at him when she successfully rolled out of the way, sword in hand, and ended up on her feet out of arm’s reach.

He’d gotten her in the thigh once, and a glancing blow off of her shoulder, and she _relished_ the knowledge that he wasn’t pulling his blows at all. If he hit her dead-on, she knew he’d have to carry her to the healers to set some broken bones.

It was exactly the kind of stakes she needed to keep her mind off of Solas, off of revolution, off of massacres that may or may not happen.

“You’ve got _great_ bodily awareness,” Bull puffed after she managed to extricate herself from his reach once again, several rounds later. “Of yours, and mine.”

“Yeah?” she gasped out.

“Yeah,” he said. He gestured roughly with the stick. “You got an eye on the reach of this thing. But you can tell where I can bend my arm, the full range of motion—you’ve figured not just the blind spots, but the _untouchable_ spots. And you know exactly how small you’ve got to make yourself to fit in them.”

She beamed at him.

“You got any more demons left to fight, Champ?” he asked.

“Why, you calling it quits?” She threw back her head and laughed at him, and at herself. “No, that was good.”

Bull leaned heavily on the stick and nodded. “Anytime. But, seriously, you doin’ alright?”

Ixchel sighed and cast her gaze around at the courtyard; it had filled up with the usual bustle while they sparred, and a few throngs had formed to watch the Inquisitor in action. “Follow me,” she said, and she led Bull into the armory.

She greeted the smiths already at work at the forges and led Bull on up the stairs. Cassandra was not present at the moment, which meant that there was no one to hear them above the clang of metal and stone.

Bull sat heavily on a bench and waited patiently for Ixchel to hop up on top of a table to sit closer to his eye level. “The Duke of Wycome has given some signals that he’s going to purge the alienage, like Celene did to Halamshiral the first time.” She rested her elbows on her knees and gestured as she spoke; her hands cut sharply through the air with her ire. “There’s a plague in the upper quarter that affects only humans, so he tried blaming the Dalish in the area first, but when he couldn’t kill them, he started blaming the city elves. It turns out, he put red lyrium in the wells for some fucking reason.”

The Iron Bull’s lip curled immediately. “Shit,” he snarled. “Sounds like a set up.”

“Maybe,” Ixchel agreed. “My plan is, in two weeks, we go through an eluvian and end up in Wycome. We show the people in the alienage what the fuck is going on, and if they want to stand up against the nobility, we prepare them for the fight ahead.” She leveled her gaze at him. “I’m not making the same mistake as last time. Fighting in a city like that…”

“Shame the Blue Wraith’s not around,” Bull said. “He’s flighty, like you. But—don’t worry, Champ.” He nodded at her. “I trained mixed crowds in Seheron. We can work with anything: from pitchforks to trebuchets. Me and the Chargers have you covered.”

“It’s not me,” she corrected grimly. “It’s Wycome.”


	129. Tests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/27/21

Ixchel left Bull after requesting that he work with Leliana and Cullen to coordinate preliminary strategies for the fight to come. In the two weeks she'd be with Dorian, Vivienne, Fiona, and Cassandra in the Frostback Basin, Bull felt confident that he could prepare the Inquisition for what might await them in Wycome. It helped that he had spent time there, in the revelry capital of the Free Marches, and his spy's mind had remembered almost every nook and cranny of the alienage, the outskirts, and the city proper.

Finally, Ixchel felt that she had done all she could to set herself up for success. It was with a much lighter heart that Ixchel went about the rest of her day.

She was nearly delirious from how tired she was by the time night fell again, and she slipped into the Fade with perhaps almost reckless ease. She would set out the next day to meet with Solas, Cole, and their ward, and she could not wait to inform them of the fact.

In her dream, Ixchel found herself back in the training ring. But instead of Bull, she was faced with Wisdom.

They were not armed with weapons, and Ixchel immediately let her hands fall in a sign of non-aggression. Wisdom considered her in silence, calm and unhurried, as they waited for Solas to arrive.

“It is not unwise to trust, _lethallan_ ,” said Wisdom. “It _is_ unwise not to _question_.”

Ixchel considered where such a declaration might have come from.

“Without questioning, there can be no learning.” The Spirit raised a hand—or the semblance of a hand—to touch Ixchel’s cheek. “Without questioning, healthy growth becomes a cancer. Questions reveal limitations, it is true. But boundaries are not necessarily evils.”

“So you’re saying he made a mistake,” Ixchel said dryly, “and I should view it as a learning opportunity?”

Wisdom seemed tickled by that. “The Wolf?” it questioned dreamily. “He has never ceased questioning.”

The Spirit blazed suddenly.

“Except when he is with you. Crystalline. Clarity. He has tasted too much of it—a duty that itself is a freedom. He would not endanger it willingly.”

Ixchel supposed that was good enough for now.

She leaned into Wisdom. “When did you come to Skyhold?” she asked.

“When the light called,” Wisdom replied. “The one whose flame will birth the Lucerni. After Adamant, after truths were revealed—his mind is fertile ground for Wisdom to take root, for Hope and Purpose to grow. But Despair could have come with its freezing fears. I came, so that it would not.” Wisdom sighed around Ixchel. “It is what I owe, but it is gifted gladly—the debt of my continued existence… I will repay your kindness in kind.”

“Thank you, Wisdom,” Ixchel said softly.

Wisdom’s attention drifted, and Ixchel looked up to see—not Solas, but _Dorian_ approaching through the empty courtyard.

When he caught sight of her, wrapped up in a Spirit, a spasm of panic crossed his face. He sprinted over, and the Fade warped around him as he ran, and Wisdom shrank back a little behind Ixchel. It wasn’t until Dorian drew closer that she felt the force of his willpower as it ricocheted between the boundaries of her dream, and it was targeted at Wisdom.

“Stop!” Ixchel cried, and she put out both hands to push back against his influence in the dream, and to protect Wisdom from whatever assault he had planned. “Stop, this is a friend!”

She still had not managed to create a proper shield, even here in the Fade, but she had at least been able to thicken the material of the Fade between her and Dorian, and his movements slowed to a crawl. As soon as he realized it was _her_ will that was slowing him, _her_ will that was in control of this dream, he stopped in place and stared at her, open-mouthed.

“ _Mula_ , what is going on?” he demanded.

“I’m dreaming, obviously,” Ixchel replied as she lowered her hands. “I wanted to speak with Wisdom.”

“ _Wisdom?”_ Dorian repeated skeptically. “My dear, _pretiousa_ , are you _certain_ you speak with such a rare Spirit and not, perhaps, a particularly cunning vestige of Pride? Even the most powerful mages spend decades searching for—”

“You think me a Demon,” Wisdom interrupted. “I am nothing but Wisdom. And it would be _unwise_ to attempt to possess his Champion.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “ _Touché_.”

Ixchel glanced at Wisdom—she had caught the _possessive_ that the Spirit had tossed in with her title. She wouldn’t put it past Dorian to have caught it as well, though for the moment it seemed he would not ask _whose_ Champion she was. “Well. If we’re doing introductions. Wisdom, this is Dorian. I believe you called him ‘the light’?”

She looked back at Dorian pointedly. “I think that’s a compliment,” she hinted.

He blinked at her, then turned to Wisdom and examined it up and down. “Thank you, I suppose,” he said, and bowed.

“Thank you for being civil,” Ixchel sighed.

Wisdom’s essence fluttered with something like amusement. “It is good to be introduced,” it said. “It will be easier, smoother, safer, now that you are aware.”

“Aware of what, exactly?”

Ixchel cast her gaze about, and everywhere her eyes landed, she shifted their meeting place into the walls of her chambers. “Wisdom says they came to help you, Dor,” Ixchel said as she painted their surroundings. He watched her avidly, lips pursed, and she knew he was critiquing her skills as a Dreamer already. She’d likely never hear the end of it, now.

To her surprise, he did not follow her revelation with some suspicious retort. Instead, he strolled over to her liquor cabinet and examined its contents with remarkable intensity. He opened it up, picked up a bottle, then shook his head and put it back.

“What?” Ixchel prompted.

“You’re missing some details,” he said. “Solas hasn’t trained you in this?”

Ixchel shook her head. “We mostly just ran from the Nightmare for several months, and now we’ve been working on my own wards.”

Dorian nodded thoughtfully and turned back to her. “And you dropped them tonight to meet with the Spirits here?”

“And to see if Solas would come,” Ixchel said—only to feel herself shrivel up and _die_ as Dorian began waggling his eyebrows at her. “Oh _stop_ it, Dor.” She turned back to Wisdom. “ _Anyway_ , this is more important. Given how all the things you’ve learned about…my past, I guess, and other worlds…”

“You wish to see me work together with the goodly Spirit, yes, yes,” Dorian said. “And you want me to see that Spirits are more than amorphous constructs of the Fade, I _get it._ Let’s begin then!” He clapped his hands and flopped down on the nearest loveseat.

Wisdom glided over to perch on the armrest, which left Ixchel alone, across from the two of them, feeling very much like the object of study. The mage looked up at the Spirit for a moment, then back at Ixchel. “So it is not merely Solas who is _somniari_. Do you have any idea if you have magical aptitude in the waking world beyond the Anchor’s abilities?”

Ixchel wrinkled her nose. “Solas thinks so. I haven’t been able to do anything with it. And I’m not even good at it in the Fade.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian scoffed. “You shouldn’t be able to do _anything_ in the Fade, and you are capable of dreaming lucidly, building wards, and countering another’s influence in your dreams!”

“That’s what Solas said,” she muttered.

“And you need no lyrium to dream like this?”

Ixchel shook her head. “Do you?” she asked, frowning.

“Tsk. Of course!” His face was beginning to grow more animated. “Do you think you could kill people in their dreams—”

“Hey!” Ixchel exclaimed. “Do you know what that does to people? I would _never_ —”

“Kill them?”

Ixchel stared at him, then shook her head. “I would never,” she repeated.

“I simply can’t believe Solas has kept this all to himself,” Dorian said, and he looked up at the attentive Wisdom, as though seeking a second supporting opinion. “This is a miracle! We must observe you closely, _mula_. Test you. If opening a connection to the Veil, or directly to the Fade, can create a mage—”

“Hey,” Ixchel said again. “I just spent the better part of a year constantly aware of my dreams and running from a Nightmare. I don’t really want to spend my _every_ dreaming moment pushing myself—”

Dorian chuckled. “Except against Solas’s body, I’m sure.”

Ixchel blasted him with as much of her ire as she could.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do anything so reckless as trying to kill someone, or find their dreams,” Dorian assured her more seriously. “Your wards aren’t actually strong enough yet. But I suppose that is what Solas is having you practice?”

Ixchel grimaced.

“Well, for as naturally gifted as Solas is, I don’t know that I can picture him as a very good _teacher_ ,” Dorian said. Wisdom gave off the distinct impression that it found this immensely amusing, but it did not disagree. “Tell me what he’s taught you about wards?”

Ixchel hesitated. She felt remarkably certain that whatever she told him was going to reveal just how uneducated and untalented she was—and that said nothing about what second-hand embarrassment she might feel for Solas. She knew that she was an accomplished warrior. She was a capable enough politician, in her own way, and tactician. But in so many regards, she was as outstripped by the mages in her lives and she always had been. Vivienne and Dorian were perhaps the most powerful mages in _centuries_ , and Solas was…well.

Ixchel swallowed her shame as much as she could. She quietly relayed to Dorian the meditations Solas had taught her and how she implemented them to build wards around her sleeping mind, and her latest practice with trying to manifest localized manipulations of the Fade in her dreams. Throughout her discussion, Dorian was quiet, and he nodded along thoughtfully. She ended with Solas’s description of the different forms of magic she had at her fingertips, and which ones he had thought she might be drawn to.

“‘Indomitable will,’ that’s really what he said?” Dorian said, after his eyebrows had nearly disappeared into his hairline. Ixchel tossed a pillow at him. “Wait until I tell _Bull!_ Has our well-mannered hedge mage ever tested that for himself—”

Ixchel tossed another pillow at him. Then, she had no more pillows, so she dreamed up some more.

Dorian snorted and threw one back at her.

“ _Lethallen_ ,” Wisdom chided.

Ixchel buried her face in her pillow and fell back into the chaise dramatically, pretending to suffocate herself out of embarrassment. Dorian laughed raucously across from her.

“Alright, alright.” Dorian stood and walked over to sit on the edge of the chaise, where Ixchel had left just enough room for him. “I know you need your rest, but I would like to see what you can do. You sparred with Bull today, yes? Would you do the same with me?”

Perhaps it was Wisdom’s company, or maybe it was the fact that Dorian’s foppish roguery had melted away into the academic appraisal that she liked to see so much, but Ixchel agreed. “What would you have me do?”

And that was how Solas found them. Ixchel was straining to show Dorian another of the countless tiny ways she had learned to exert her influence upon the Fade: introducing _sounds_ into her dreams, on purpose. It was one of her least-practiced skills, and it took her the most concentration to remember through the haze of her dreaming mind how things were supposed to sound. It was far easier to task the Wisps with recreating something close-to-life _for_ her than trying to do it all herself.

She had been struggling to summon the sounds of Celene’s orchestra to her quarters, where they still practiced. All the while, Dorian observed her with his endless, affable patience. Wisdom had been conversing with them, as Ixchel worked her magic for Dorian; the Spirit posed questions or made simple observations that seemed to spur Dorian’s inquisitive mind even further. With every new thing Ixchel managed to show them, the more Dorian seemed to settle into his ultra-competent mentor mindset.

Ixchel thought it had been a long time since she had felt Dorian so at peace with the knowledge in his hands. She found herself incapable of hiding her smile as she continued to work her magic.

And then—then, she felt it was right. She looked up at him with a bright smile to find that he, too, was looking at her with such awe and affection that it might stop her heart.

The music swelled. This was a new kind of pride, or at least something she had all but forgotten in the many years she had been Inquisitor. She could not remember the last time she had felt so _proud_ of learning something. Self-consciousness about her fumbling attempts at speaking Elvhen made her accent swell, her tongue so afraid of mistakes that it rarely attempted to speak something she did not already know. Even practicing magic with Solas in the Fade, she was filled more with frustration and a stubborn determination to succeed, and she rarely allowed whatever pride he might have in her efforts actually seep into her.

But with Dorian, the stakes felt lower. The surprise and pleasure that he gained in assessing her abilities felt genuine and without qualifications. He did not view every effort she made through the expectation of _fulfilling the potential of the Elvhen_ , which was how she thought that Solas might look at her. Dorian was simply excited that she could do this, for the sake of it, for her _own_ sake.

Perhaps it was the pride that summoned Solas, for that was when he arrived in her dream. It perplexed Ixchel that he might come up the _stairs_ in her imagined quarters, as opposed to simply appearing in their company, or even on the balcony. But as she turned to face him, she saw the humor in his eye.

A coy smile adorned his face as he took in the sight of them—a Magister, a Spirit of Wisdom, and whatever Ixchel was—sitting together in the Fade, surrounded by conjured trinkets and music and sources of other sensations like the food and drink and fur and steel that Ixchel had conjured in her demonstrations. Ixchel recognized a certain _hahren_ quality to the way Solas looked at them, as though he were a teacher come back to find his students in the middle of some unsanctioned prank. Ixchel couldn’t help how she immediately froze up under that gaze, and all her pride was replaced with a gentle sheepishness at being caught.

Dorian, ever the rebel, was completely unperturbed. If anything, the swiftness with which he stood and pointed an accusatory finger at Solas implied that perhaps _this_ was what he had actually been waiting for all night long.

"I cannot _believe_ you have been keeping this from us, my friend!" he cried. "She is a marvel!"

Ixchel flushed and sank slowly down in her seat.

"Indeed," Solas said, and his smile widened into a lop-sided, teeth-baring smirk. "That is rather why I would like to keep her all to myself."

Dorian didn't miss a beat. "Good on you, my friend!" he said cheerfully. "Well, Wisdom. It's been a pleasure. Thank you for your insights. I am certain I will cross paths with you again soon. On nydha, my dears!"

He bowed sweepingly, then vanished from the dream.

Ixchel glanced back at the Spirit to confirm that it had remained. She knew how Solas valued it dearly as a friend, but Ixchel got the sense that the Spirit would stay more for _her_ own sake than for Solas’s company.

Solas was dressed in all black, but not the same black she had so often seen Fen’Harel wear. This was a far simpler outfit than the gilded darkness that shrouded Fen'Harel. It was simply clean, and neat: Solas, still. But it was in the canny gleam in his eye, the edge to his smile, that she felt the wolf lurking.

She swallowed.

“I have a lot to tell you,” she said, “but I need to ask you something, Solas.”

His face remained so carefully neutral that she _immediately_ knew that he held more secrets than she could imagine, and he was trying to figure out which one had gotten him in trouble this time. It would have been amusing if it didn’t itch at the most suspicious and bitter and scarred parts of her. But Wisdom was still nearby, and with Wisdom, that irrational part of her heart calmed and quieted as soon as it tried to rear its ugly head.

Ixchel rested the hand that held the Anchor on the back of the chaise and looked up at Solas. He had not drawn any further into the room. They regarded each other in silence for a moment longer, and she was grateful for the chance to try and organize her thoughts; that was what she had hoped to do, before Dorian had distracted her. After all—there were _so many_ important things she had to tell him, in addition to these questions that she wanted answers to.

“Briala tells me that there are elves putting flowers in their hair and calling for _mien’harel_ in alienages across Orlais—saying that they have the Dread Wolf’s blessing.” Ixchel tilted her chin and fixed him with a pointed look. “Your doing?”

Solas was silent for a moment too long.

Ixchel’s heart seized.

“Not actively,” Solas said, very slowly.

Wisdom drew closer. “Go on,” it urged.

His silver eyes flicked to the Spirit, then back to Ixchel. He had clasped his hands behind his back once again, at once both contrite and defiant.

“They are independent cells, organized by their own values. They have not been given a higher purpose except this: to protect their own.” He paused, then inclined his head as though to physically tear his gaze away from her own. “What they know of the time Before is little more than any of my followers have ever known. They are simply Proud elves. They have Dignity. They should be treated accordingly—and they will demand that as their right, by whatever mean they feel necessary.”

“Okay,” Ixchel said.

Solas blinked down at the ground, and now her heart ached for an entirely different reason. He was so quick to presume her suspicion would rule. He was so certain of his guilt that he was, just as she so often was, waiting for a blow to land that would break him.

And she never, ever wanted to fulfill that dread expectation of his.

She clenched her fist, then forced herself to relax; she did not know if she would _ever_ stop being so surprised when he decided to be so honest with her. Pleasantly surprised, but still—it took her a moment to untense, uncoil, unwind the parts of her that had anticipated a lie or a defensive strike.

It did not take Wisdom to tell her that this time away was testing their fledgling trust. Much longer, and she worried about how Despair might take hold of the both of them.

Ixchel sighed. “Solas, how would I find fault in any that?” she asked gently.

Of course, he had a reply on the tip of his tongue. “In the lack of awareness alone—it would be enough that I did not think to tell you. You have plenty of reasons to be suspicious, and I—.”

“Reason has nothing to do with it,” Wisdom whispered.

Solas’s ear twitched. Ixchel offered him a small smile. “A year and a day, _vhenan_ ,” she said, extending her hand for him. His magic in her palm sparkled enticingly, but she did not attempt to impose her will upon him. Not that she could hope to (though she suspected if she tried, he might go along with her whims simply to humor her).

But she waited as he contemplated her hand, and the mark he had inadvertently left upon it.

Finally, Solas slunk toward her like a scolded hound and knelt behind the chaise, so that he could rest his cheek on her proffered hand.

“I have been aware of some of this…revolutionary spirit,” he admitted, “though, among all the other matters that have concerned me of late, it was not one I paid particular attention to. I did not think you would wish for me to put a cease to it.”

“That’s correct,” she said. His ear twitched against her fingers, and the muscles of his face relaxed a little. She leaned closer so she could both cup his cheek in her left hand, and trace the sharp lines of his face with her other hand. “I told Briala that I knew my image would be used, but I could only hope that it would be for something such as this. She says that no progress has been made for any of the alienages in Orlais, and likely none of them across Thedas, since what happened in Halamshiral. I can’t fix the world by myself, and neither can you, Fen’Harel. So let them craft _felgaral dir’vhen’an_ of their own. Let them each be champions of the People, with your blessing and mine.”


	130. Ignorance is Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/2/21

His eyes drifted closed as she skimmed her fingertips along his brow. A warm, heavy breath escaped him. “’ _Ma’av’in… ‘Ma’sal’shiral,_ ” he murmured. “What else have you to tell me? Dorian seemed to be in fine spirits.”

“Finally,” Ixchel agreed. “Wisdom helped. But there’s…a lot, Solas.”

Solas’s eyes remained closed as she spoke to him of the news from Wycome, and her plan, and Briala’s visit. His brow creased a little, but he nodded thoughtfully when she finished.

“If… If you have people there,” she began to ask, but she faltered before she could actually make her request.

Her goals were for all the people of the alienage—especially if there was to be a repeat performance from Halamshiral. For as much as she felt that Solas’s goals now aligned with hers, her understanding remained that his agents were elves, fighting for elves…and she did not know if this was a request she could make of them. On top of that concern, Ixchel’s skin crawled just at the thought of introducing even more of political nature into their romantic relationship.

But then again, for as much as they were friends and lovers and mutual moral supports, he was the Dread Wolf, and she was Rogasha’ghi’lan. She loved him not just despite his role as such--but because of it, too. And he, in turn, had named her _his_ Champion.

Before she could muster the courage to voice her request, Solas turned his face into her touch and pressed a kiss to her torn palm.

 _“Ma’av’in,_ ” he murmured. “You are my mouth, my heart. Do not doubt...these are _our_ people. I will not leave them to this fate.”

Her heart flip-flopped in her chest at the gentle conviction in his voice, and she was drawn inexorably to him by the thousands of invisible threads that seemed to connect her existence to his own. He apparently felt the same pull, for he leaned up on his knees to reach for her over the back of the chaise. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed their foreheads together. His breath was hot on her face—the purest Fade, heady with power. She breathed deeply of him and found herself immediately intoxicated by this rebel god who she had found as her lover, and her ally.

“If…if there’s something, anything I can do to help you, Solas, you know you need only ask,” she said. “Our paths…we walk them together.”

“Thank you, _arasha_ ,” he murmured. He smiled softly and tangled his fingers in the end of her hair. “And thank you, Wisdom.”

Wisdom settled around both of them like a blanket. “ _Ara melava son’ganem,_ ” it impressed upon them both. “Now tell us, _Rajelan_ , of your efforts with Compassion and those in your care. And show _Rogasha’ghi’lan_ where she may find you in the world that wakes, so you may be reunited soon.”

-:-:-:-:-

Cass, Dorian, Vivienne, Fiona, Amund, and Ser Barris were to accompany her, which meant their journey was going to be slower than Ixchel had hoped—for not everyone was so lucky as to have a sure-footed beast like Eldhru to carry them to the far corners of Thedas like the wind itself. But she found that she was impatient even just waitig for her party to finish saddling their mounts and packing their burdens away in Skyhold’s courtyard.

Whenever she found herself preparing to leave the fortress these days, she knew she was going to attract a crowd. Once upon a time, such crowds had been commonplace—and one of the things she most despised about being Inquisitor. She had nearly burst into tears when her own soldiers began throwing _flowers_ at her, as a younger woman; they begged for her blessing as Herald of Andraste, and she had not known, then, how to discourage the practice. But in this life, it seemed she had done a good enough job either dispelling the rumors of her divinity, or at least in communicating her distaste for being _treated_ as divine. These crowds were her loyal forces wishing her safe journey just the same as they might any of their comrades.

Ixchel spoke with some of them as she waited for her companions to finish their preparations. Neria, First of Clan Ralaferin, and Cillian, the Arcane Warrior from the same clan, were eager to hear of some of the magic she thought she might uncover in the Frostback Basin. Few clans wandered there, due to the prevalence of gurguts, wyverns, and hostile Avvar. Ixchel told Neria what she remembered of the poem of the Ice Troll, and Neria told her excitedly about a text she had translated, sent from Clan Farentharian as they continued to plan the upcoming Arlathvhen.

As Neria went on, Ixchel wondered how much of the true history of the Evanuris she could lead Neria to discover—and when. Ixchel had a feeling that this rebellious First was a _particular_ kind of Dalish. The history, and the struggle, of the Elves seemed to matter more to Neria and Gisharel than the worship of the Creators. But, as Ixchel had said before…the Dalish, their clans, and their desires were as varied as the stars.

This Arlathvhen would have massive repercussions for their way of life, with or without any revelations about the Evanuris. And Ixchel did not need to decide quite yet what she would reveal. She had not even uncovered Geldauran’s hideout again—and these secrets were not necessarily hers alone to tell. For as much as he used his title as part of his leadership strategy, Ixchel did not think that Solas was eager to be recognized as Fen’Harel the God…and neither was she. A pang of melancholy struck her even just thinking about losing him to a title, let alone making him the face of the fear and suspicion surrounding the Dalish depiction of Fen’Harel.

Soon, the call came to depart.

Ixchel left Isenam in Skyhold in favor of Eldhru. She chose the great hart for this journey as a twofold symbol: both of imposing Elvhen glory and the faith of the common people everywhere. But Eldhru was also a reminder of both her success and her failures in Halamshiral. _Eldhru, Our Faith_ , would carry her to change the foundation of every modern society, as Cassandra had so aptly phrased it.

As Ixchel led Eldhru to the lift outside of Skyhold’s front gate, she turned her face to the wind and breathed deeply. She loved her home, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was a breath of freedom.

Amund chuckled beside her. He was in charge of the cart that carried her borrowed eluvian; it was led by two heavy-footed work horses, for Amund himself was too large to comfortably ride any single mount they had at their disposal.

“It is strange magic that holds the sky back from within those walls,” the augur said. “That is not bad—the gods find a home here. But it is always better to find such places in the wild, where the land is just as free as the gods.”

Ixchel looked back at the fortified walls of Skyhold as they disappeared above her, hidden as the lift slowly dropped them down from the mountaintop and down into the valley below. Perhaps that was what she had missed. For as much as she found she liked places where the Veil was thin, Skyhold was _settled_. The walls enclosed her. They made a place that held such intense and amorphous potential feel grounded, limited—very much attached to the here and now in the waking world. It was a good place when it was filled with everyone she loved, in times of peace. But at the moment, it held only reminders of her absent friends, and the weight of the duties that lay upon her shoulders.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel was pleased to see Cassandra and Amund strike up a friendship almost on the very first day of their journey. The Inquisitor had half expected Cassandra to be too shy, or sore, about the monumental upheaval in her faith to actually address the Sky Watcher. But Cassandra rode her horse alongside Amund’s cart and asked him about his unique war hammer—and that seemed to be enough for them to hit it off.

The war hammer was carved with all sorts of foreign iconography, which Amund explained were meant to help channel Korth’s Might into his blows. Ixchel quickly realized that she had not specified to her present company that Amund was both a warrior and a mage, as many Avvar augurs tended to be; when he suddenly began to explain how he could imbue the warhammer with lightning, fire, and ice, Cassandra’s eyes widened—and then suddenly, Amund had caught the interest of the Circle-trained mages and Ser Barris as well.

Amund, as thick-skinned and proud as any Avvar, took even their most ignorant questions in stride. He even tolerated Vivienne’s back-handed compliments about being a mage on the front lines, though he shot back with some sharp barbs of his own.

By the end of the second day, it was clear that the no-nonsense, rugged Sky Watcher had truly grown on the Seeker. Cassandra’s curiosity was loud and unabashed, as were Amund’s answers. It was impossible, no matter where in the caravan one rode, to escape their discussions of the Veil, the Lady of the Skies, sky burials, and, of course, possession. Thus it was that Fiona and Barris were often roped into discussions about how Avvar mage training varied so much from that of the Circles and the Wardens. Dorian listened avidly, but he asked few questions of his own. Rather, every now and then he would fix Ixchel with a charged look, and she knew that he had come up with a question to ask her at the next available opportunity.

Vivienne seemed to find herself alone in more ways than one. After a day full of acerbic comments that failed to goad the Avvar augur into a true fight, it also became clear that no one else was going to pile on with her. If this journey had occurred months ago, perhaps Vivienne might have thought that she was speaking what was on everyone’s minds when she insulted the augur—she might even have thought herself the hero of the day for doing so. But now, when no one rose to bolster her, she fell silent for the large part of the remaining journey.

And it was a long one.

Ixchel led her entourage on a winding path through the Frostback Mountains to avoid Haven and its pilgrims and to stay out of the sphere of the Breach’s influence as best she could. No one questioned the somewhat meandering course; Cassandra and Dorian likely understood that it was a journey she had made before, in her other life, while Amund seemed to understand what it was she was avoiding.

Ixchel spent a few of her nights with Dorian in the Fade, but he could not join her too often or for too long; they needed to conserve their lyrium supply. Even so, those few visits were proving to be invaluable. After only his second visit to her dreams, she found somewhat to her chagrin that he had been right about the deficiencies in how Solas was training her. Solas had been laying a solid enough foundation with her control of her latent magic, but there was something to be said about the structure of Circle curriculum. Dorian had concrete goals for her to reach and straightforward exercises to help her achieve them with a timeline. With those goals as footholds, Ixchel felt her grasp of magic begin to truly solidify.

In her nightly meditations, she was beginning to access that moment of complete outer-awareness rather reliably. Though she was wary of attempting any sort of demonstration in the waking world with so many very traditionally-minded Chantry folk around her, she could not quell her growing excitement anytime she thought of practicing her shields and her spheres of influence with Solas.

On the third evening, as Ixchel meditated by the fire, she nearly achieved the focus she was searching for when a sudden presence snapped her out of her trance. She looked up to find Fiona standing at the edge of the firelight; the former Grand Enchanter was watching her with a quizzical expression, as though she had an idea of what Ixchel was attempting but did not understand why she would make such an effort. When she saw Ixchel’s focus return, she bowed her head apologetically. “I do not mean to interrupt you, Inquisitor Lavellan,” Fiona said.

“You’re not,” Ixchel said. “Please, sit, if you’d like.”

Fiona took up a spot opposite from her. She held out her gloved hands to appreciate the warmth of the fire, and she fixed her eyes on the flames. “Have you enjoyed your reading material?” Fiona asked without looking up at Ixchel.

Ixchel tried not to tense too visibly, though she could not hide the reflexive twitch of her ear beneath her hair. She was quiet for a moment before deciding to admit, “It’s an uncomfortable place to be, realizing how little I knew about something so vitally important to a large population of people.”

Fiona was careful not to reveal any judgement, positive or negative, in her face.

“I made peace with my ignorance long ago, and I’m grateful that your declaration’s motivations have been written, seemingly, with the ignorant in mind.” Ixchel bit her lip. “A little discomfort is a small price to pay in comparison to what the Circle system inflicted on generations of mages and Templars.”

Fiona smiled a little. “We are of course glad you think so, Inquisitor.”

Ixchel glanced pensively in the direction of the tents, where Vivienne had retired early rather than socialize with the others in camp. “There is one thing that has not sat well with me,” Ixchel said slowly. “At the end of the articles, the Free Mages declare that anyone who has read it in its entirety and does not join the cause is an enemy of Free Mages everywhere. They specifically call out the Loyalist movement. But would it not be…disorienting to realize that the cage you had made your home was in fact unlocked the whole time? Or that you are being asked to leave your home—a place of comfort for some, though not for many—behind?”

“You must understand, Inquisitor,” Fiona said in a low, patient tone, “that the moment this was decided, each of the writers were convinced that a continent-wide Annullment was about to commence. In light of that, anyone who would keep the Circles…they were voting for the extermination of themselves along with their compatriots.”

Ixchel hesitated, then opened her mouth to say that she did understand, and agreed in part. But Fiona continued before she could speak, this time in a slightly harder voice. “I did not find the Circles so terrible in their _entirety_ , I will admit as much. I would not have risen to Grand Enchanter if I were so displeased. Nor did I wish for us to start a war—between mages and Templars, or within the mages, or against the lay public. But the voice of our council supposedly spoke for all mages. A Loyalist crying in the wilderness…would that matter to a Templar, or to a farmer?”

Fiona’s face was suddenly pinched with deep chagrin. “By declaring the Loyalists our enemies, we had hoped that Divine Justinia, the Lord Seeker, and even the public, might then see the Loyalists as their allies…as separate from whatever threat they perceived in the Mage Rebellion.”

Ixchel’s heart plummeted to her feet at the realization. “ _Fenedhis_ ,” she mumbled, and rubbed at her eyes with one hand. “No one read it.”

“Few read it except for the rebels themselves,” Fiona said darkly. “And many mistook this peace offering as an order.”

The Inquisitor was silent as she stared into the fire. She knew well enough what some rebels thought of the Loyalists. Some of the cells in the Hinterlands had made it clear that _anyone_ who wasn’t a Rebel was better off dead—and they were more than happy to usher that end along.

Perhaps, in part, because of their leaders’ attempted cleverness.

“Divine Justinia read it,” Fiona added, as an afterthought. “But by then, the Templars had come off their leash. The Lord Seeker had his own motivations…”

“I like the proposals,” Ixchel said, and she was earnest, but it felt weak in light of the bleak topic.

“The College?” Fiona mused.

“And the proposals for how Templars and mages could work together to protect each other,” Ixchel said. “Specifically. Though there’s nothing that addresses the Templars’ lyrium addictions—”

“Because it is something we know next to nothing about,” Fiona said wearily. Even in the forgiving light of the fire, the woman’s fatigue and age were suddenly apparent on her face. She nodded pensively. “That is something we hope to learn more of, now that Templars are not attempting to kill us on sight. Thanks to the Inquisition.” Her lips twitched into a faint smile. “It is something I have spoken to Ser Barris about frequently. It is yet another topic that we will need to address, in the coming years. It is a topic many mages would be willing to research in the College. For now, it seems that the solutions are largely dependent on the outcome of Commander Rutherford’s brave experiment.”

“It is brave,” Ixchel agreed. Her gaze dropped to the softly glowing coals in front of her. “You have no idea how important it has been to me, to see so many people fighting for a better world. Even if it hurts. Even if we don’t know for certain it will be better… It means a lot that you try.”

Fiona gave a soft, throaty laugh. “Do you include Enchanter Vivienne in that good company, Inquisitor?” she asked, and though her tone was somewhat facetious, her eyes were hard and dark.

Ixchel raised her own to meet Fiona’s. “Yes,” Ixchel said firmly. “Yes, I do.”


	131. Ouroboros

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/4/21

“Does it hurt?”

Ixchel looked up at Vivienne blankly. She had been focused on the placement of her feet, for the pass they were following was particularly marshy in the late summer. The mounts followed slowly behind, hooves _sucking_ in the mud. It was slow and miserable going, but there was no way to go but forward, or back—and they weren’t going back.

It was made all the slower because Eldhru, proud as he was, was also stubborn and vain. At least Ixchel attributed the white hart’s distaste for mud to vanity. She had been forced to drag him, near the end of their train, with reigns pulled tight in her left hand. She had just switched to her right when Vivienne spoke.

“What?” Ixchel asked.

Vivienne’s gaze dropped to the path, mud churned up by the hooves and feet of those who had come ahead of them. “Your hand, my dear,” she said quietly.

“Not particularly.” Ixchel frowned down at the gloved Anchor. It did not hurt at all. In fact, she could hardly feel the pulse of it—Solas’s pulse—at the moment. She had skirted so far around the Breach specifically to avoid aggravating it; even now, she could feel the magic pull northwest, in its direction, and it masked whatever pull toward Solas she might have otherwise been able to discern—

“It’s just,” began Vivienne.

And then she paused.

Ixchel raised her eyes very slowly to look at the Enchanter. Vivienne’s eyes remained firmly on the ground, and the muscles in her jaw worked as she swallowed whatever it was she was about to say.

How remarkably uncharacteristic of her.

“Why do you ask?” Ixchel asked.

Vivienne was quiet for a moment. “It flared, when we spoke after you arrived in Skyhold. Then you decided to spar one-handed with the Iron Bull. I merely wondered if it had been aggravated. The Iron Bull worries that you are convinced you will lose it.”

Ixchel considered the many curiosities Vivienne had just laid at her feet: her open concern; the fact that she had been observing her from her balcony; Bull’s apparent realization that speaking his concerns to Ixchel’s face was a pointless endeavor; that Bull had chosen to confide in _Vivienne_ … And that Bull, as ever, was spot-on with his reading of her.

She briefly considered whether or not this was something she wanted to keep secret, but she did not see the point. It was no secret that the Anchor could have killed her, without Solas’s influence. “I will,” she confirmed shortly. “It belongs to the Fade, and it will take me with it, if it can. I can feel it. Unless we can find some other way to remove it from my body, I’ll probably have to lose the whole arm.”

Vivienne raised her eyes to Ixchel’s face and studied it. Again, words formed in her mouth but did not escape her.

Ixchel gave her a slightly plaintive look. “Please, Vivienne. Speak.”

“No,” Vivienne said. “It was perhaps an uncharitable thought.”

The Inquisitor had to smile a little at that, and Vivienne arched an eyebrow at her. “I have never asked your charity, Vivienne. Only your patience. What is it?”

The former First Enchanter chuckled, but it was a brittle sound. “My first thought was that you must be mistaken in your assessment. You are no scholar of the Veil, after all. But,” she continued swiftly, “I can’t disregard the fact that I do not know what it is like to wield that mark. Perhaps you know perfectly well what it will do, and my reflexive denial is simply because I wish that it were not the truth.”

Ixchel felt, suddenly, that she must be dreaming. Her feet continued moving of their own accord, as though she had not just heard open concern in Vivienne’s words and tone—and contrition. She had no control of face as Vivienne’s admission sank deep into her and touched, warmed, the deepest part of her heart.

Vivienne held Ixchel’s gaze for a moment longer, then returned her eyes forward to stare at the back of the caravan.

Ixchel’s throat was suddenly quite crowded with words and tears. “Thank you, sincerely,” she rasped. “I don’t mean to cause undue concern. It’s not…urgent. It really doesn’t bother me at the moment. But yes… I am certain of this.”

“And it is not simply on Solas’s word that you predicate your certainty?” Vivienne pressed, still without looking at her.

“No.”

Vivienne nodded and did not speak again.

Eldhru tugged back obstinately, and Vivienne began to pull ahead with her own horse. Ixchel found herself staring at Vivienne’s back in agonized silence. She wondered, if she were to ask, would Vivienne tell her what was weighing on her mind? Or would it be foolish, because Ixchel already supposed she knew what was bothering the older woman. She wondered what the point might be, in asking. Would it be an insult?

Ixchel took a breath and scolded herself for allowing such thoughts to stop her from offering a friend some compassion.

She dragged Eldhru forward through the mud to come abreast of Vivienne once again. “I hope you’ve not been troubled too much by our company,” Ixchel said hesitantly.

The Iron Lady’s jaw tightened. “Not actively, no.”

Ixchel waited to see if her friend would continue. It might have been nearly ten full minutes before Vivienne spoke again, and by then, Ixchel had deflated somewhat. She tried not to look up so eagerly when Vivienne finally cleared her throat.

“In times of great study or frustration, I found that I was often drawn to the Chateau… In particular, the Duke and Duchess had built a fine chapel perfect for quiet contemplation and meditation.” Vivienne sighed almost imperceptably. “I find myself longing for it, now. It is difficult to find the same calm amid the camp, and the caravan. But like so much, I do not believe I will ever return to that little chapel. And even if I were to visit…it would not be the same.”

Ixchel thought immediately of Skyhold. Skyhold, so cold and empty that Regret had made it its home. Skyhold, her home—her first, and only—as dead as she wished she’d be. She had had almost an overwhelming number of happy memories there, in comparison to any bad ones, and yet none of it mattered when she found herself alone there in the wake of the Exalted Council…

Ixchel wished she could tell Vivienne that perhaps she would be surprised at where life took her. Ixchel wished she could tell her that even the darkest and most painful places could be rehabilitated. She wished she could assure Vivienne that, in the abstract, evolution did not mean leaving everything one loved behind; it might be time to cut the wheat from the chafe in the Circle and the Chantry’s doctrines, but not everything that brought her comfort need be discarded.

But Ixchel knew that Vivienne knew all of this, and anything Ixchel could think to say felt like pale platitudes for it.

“It is a unique pain,” Ixchel said at last. “I am glad you had such a place, even for a time.”

Vivienne scoffed, though it held no edge. “A part of me wishes I had never known of it. Part of me believes I will never find its compare again…”

She let loose a long, slow breath and looked up at the sky.

“But I hope that I do.”

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel had felt it simmering beneath her skin for days, like static in the air. Something had latched on to her in the wilderness on her way to Skyhold; since then, it had been feeding on the oscillating fear and grim certainty that had snapped taught over and over again within her. After seeing Solas, after making plans for Wycome, after initiating talks between the mage factions, Templars, and what would become the leaders of the Chantry, Ixchel had _hoped_ that the roiling unease within her would settle.

She was doing everything she could, after all, to protect the things and people she cared about.

Her hard work _was_ paying off.

When she had left Skyhold that first day and felt relief, she had thought that she escaped the thing that lurked in her shadows. But with each wary glance shared between her traveling companions, she felt herself slipping back into its snare.

She had been honest with Fiona when she said it mattered, that this group would humor her desire to see a Spirit freed. It mattered that these opposing factions had agreed to, finally, collaborate on a mutually beneficial future. It mattered that they seemed to, for the most part, get along with one another.

And yet it didn’t. It didn’t matter at all.

The meditations helped keep her dreams clear of panic and fear and despair. But it was in the quiet moments in camp, and on the road, that the liar in her shadow whispered:

_Futile_ .

Traveling as they were, Ixchel simply could not know what was going on in Wycome. She could try to sneak through the eluvian to return to Skyhold for an update, but there were certain members of their traveling party that were not fully aware that they were transporting an eluvian, so she did not risk it. There would be a stack of reports for her by the time she reached Harding’s forward camp, and, regardless, there was nothing she could do until an eluvian had been relocated to Wycome _anyway_.

_Futile._

The revelation that Fen’Harel’s rebels were agitating in alienages—in her name, no less!—without her knowledge had placed a doubt in her mind. She hated that it took root and found fertile soil.

No matter how she clung to her mantra ( _he is different, he speaks of our people, he is different, we walk a different path)_ , she could not help but hear another voice taunting her. It was the same voice that accompanied her so often in those late days of the scattered Inquisition: he knows your weaknesses, _your blind sides, and he will not hesitate to strike with the subtlest of knives. Lord of Tricksters, He Who Hunts Alone…_

While she walked throughout the days, Ixchel would sometimes raise her hand to her chest and find her heart thundering at an unsteady, frantic pace. She knew the fragile organ was consuming itself, eating itself alive, and she knew that she should have seen this coming.

Just as Solas would never be free of the guilt and grief and duty that called to him from ages past, she might never be free of the doubt and fear that he had instilled in her once upon a time. For that was what it was: despite all certainty she had about Solas now, she still doubted. And that doubt sowed the fear that Solas would take this love she had fought so hard to foster, this hope that had blossomed into something more intrinsic, and turn it upon her like a knife in the dark.

It helped somewhat to _know_ that such fears were vestigial. But that knowledge did not help _enough_ to stop feeling them.

Ixchel approached Dorian on their fifth evening on the road as he retreated to his shared tent. He had been just about to enter it when he noticed her approach, and he turned with a smile one his face to greet her. At the sight of his bright expression, Ixchel felt her heart stutter again, and maybe the fear that roiled inside showed on her face, because Dorian drew close immediately, stone-cold serious.

She surprised herself when she spoke and found her own voice steady and free of tears, if a little quiet. “Would you sit with me for a while?” she asked.

Her head felt heavy as she lifted it to meet his gaze.

“Of course,” he said immediately. He swung his pack back onto his shoulder and put his arm around her shoulder, heedless of any looks they might get as they walked back to her tent. She moved alongside him and felt herself detached from the motions, as though someone else were puppetting her body. As if she were cut off from the sensations, the will, that defined her.

She walked a little faster.

Dorian’s pack slipped from his arm and hit the floor as soon as the flap of the tent closed behind them, and then he wrapped her into a tight, wordless hug.

Ixchel buried her face in his chest and held on to him like he were her only tether to safe harbor. The searing heat of his body seeped into her as she clung to him. He squeezed her tighter as time went on and buried his face in her hair and sighed a little, but did not move to release her.

“Anything in particular?” he asked gently.

Ixchel swallowed the lump in her throat and shivered a little despite the heat that surrounded her.

“I’m on a knife’s edge,” she said into his chest, matter-of-factly. “One wrong step and I feel like it’s going to get me.”

“Nothing is going to _get_ you,” he replied. “This thing has no will of its own. It’s just a trick of the light. A shape in the shadows.”

Ixchel sat with that for a moment, but the words meant nothing to her. It was as though she did not hear them even as he spoke them, for they had not pierced the thick shell around her heart.

“There are just things I know that once came to pass, that I think now may never come to pass…but I’m still afraid of them,” she said after another long pause. “But that’s not.. It's more than that. This is just there, in me. I just have to feel it.”

But even as she spoke, no tears made their way to her eyes. She ground her face into his shirt as though that might inspire an appropriate surge of emotion, but still she just felt empty of life, and full of dread.

Dorian stroked her hair. “Did any of this happen before?” he asked. “With Cassandra, Vivienne, Fiona, Anders…”

Ixchel shook her head. “Not in my wildest dreams.”

He snorted. “I’m not convinced this _isn’t_ a wild dream. Would you care to pinch me? Prove I’m awake and in the South and watching the future Divine, Templars, mages, and a heathen augur getting along because of a Dalish savage?”

Ixchel poked him in the ribs, and he nearly leaped out of his skin. “I said pinch, not tickle!” he squealed as he tore away from her, and then he burst out laughing at himself.

Ixchel stared at him. It was the most Dorian thing she could think of—his prissy, affronted complaining and then his self-aware humor undercutting it all—and it was a jarring departure from the serious, somewhat grim atmosphere that had fallen over them all over the past week. Indeed, since Adamant.

“I missed you,” she said.

Dorian’s face went slack. “Pardon?”

A smile cracked her face. She reached for the crystal that still hung rom her neck, returned there after the painful revelations in the Fade; she clasped it tightly now and lowered herself to the ground.

He followed to sit close to her side, waiting for her to speak again. She allowed him to tuck her under his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t think I’m very good for you,” she whispered at last.

“Er… I have advanced credentials in thaumaturgy and mathematics, and still I haven’t the _faintest_ idea where you came up with _that_.”

She closed her eyes and clung to the crystal. “We’re going to be hopeful,” she promised. “I’m going to be hopeful. I don’t want to drag you down.”

Dorian squeezed her arm. “You’re not dragging me down, Ixchel.”

“Not yet,” she allowed.

He had begun to rub her arm in a soothing fashion, but after a moment he began to fall still; the realization slowly dawned on Dorian, it seemed, that he was missing a large piece of the picture. And his clever mind was quickly filling in the dark, depressing blanks.

“You lost as much as I did,” she explained quietly. “The people we cared about. All our goals seemed so impossible, all our efforts, so futile, and we just…we just suffered, because that’s all we thought there was to do. And anytime you tried to get me to see anything else… I just pulled you down with me. Who knows why?” She swallowed painfully. The hard things in her had begun to melt as she spoke, and the emotions began to seep back into her. She rested her head on his shoulder, eyes still closed—but they had begun to prickle. “Things are _not_ futile. It _is_ possible to change the world. But I… I don’t think we ever got to see that happen.”

Each of the words cut her throat like razor blades.

“And now that we do get that chance… I’ve put so much guilt and pain on your shoulders all over again.” She struggled to breathe around the pain of tears in her throat—tears that still would not fall. “I don’t even have it in me to be happy. And I just want you to be happy, Dor. I’m sorry.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I can’t remember the last time I heard that…let alone believed someone when they said it. But... _Mula..._ The only way you could pull me down is if you were to act extraordinarily out of character. If you were to say I betrayed you, or criticize my hair, or tell me that I was hurting those I mean to help..." He sighed, when Ixchel did not laugh. "The love and concern that leads myself, or any one, to hurt when you hurt--that is not something that drags us down. That's not something that's your fault, or for you to be ashamed of."

Ixchel squeezed him gently, but she had no words for him in response. She knew he could be right. She knew, at least, that he thought he was.

And unlike in the past, she would let that be enough for now.

“Are you familiar with the symbol of the ouroboros?” he asked after a moment.

“No.”

“Look, mula.”

Dorian raised his hand and traced a flaming sigil on the ground: a dragon, eating its own tail. The lithe form of it writhed in the flames, but it had a long, serpentine body like an Archdemon.

“I’m positively convinced it’s just another ancient thing cannibalized from the ruins of the elven empire,” he said somewhat wryly, “but it is supposedly a symbol of life’s infinite, unending cycle. Birth and death, consumption and renewal… Nothing is truly lost, and nothing is truly separate. Order is chewed upon by disorder, and disorder excretes order—”

Ixchel snickered. “I know when you’re bullshitting,” she croaked.

He swatted her. “This is my attempt at your inspirational speech-making, Lavellan,” he said scornfully. “Hush!”

“What were you going to say?” she asked as she tried to stifle her watery grin. “You were talking about this Archdemon’s excretions.”

“Chel.”

She nudged him.

“I was going to say, that there must be a reason the infinite is depicted as a terrible dragon.”

Dorian ran a finger around the curve of the beast’s spine. The flames flickered and gleamed off of the rings that adorned his elegant hand, and Ixchel recognized among them the signet ring of House Alexius. She wondered if it were Felix's, or if it had been given to him before any of this even began.

“There is a reason we come screaming into the world,” Dorian continued, but there was a new, distant note in his voice. His brow had furrowed, as though he were thinking of something beyond even what he and Ixchel spoke of. “There is a reason we fear death. But what _is_ that reason? Do we fear death because of the pain and indignity of birth to follow? Do babes cry because they are once again on the inexorable path to death?”

He gave a dark smile down at the ouroboros.

“There is no escaping time. It is a thing of dread. You aren’t broken because you are afraid--of the end, or of the recurrence," Dorian said, coming back to the moment at hand.

Ixchel stared down at the smoldering ouroboros.

_As long as the music plays…_

“But,” Dorian said, in a lighter tone, “perhaps we would do well to remember that we _are_ the dragon.”


	132. Raven Starvers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/6/21

It was raining when they finally reached the cup of the Basin.

Eldhru was clearly mortified at the turn in the weather, with his thick white mane hanging heavy with water. He kept planting himself in the middle of the path so that he could shake his coat, which was an entirely useless endeavor amid the downpour. Dorian was likewise rather unhappy with the Southern climate and the utter havoc it was wreaking on his hair. But he did not complain much after the first shower hit them. Indeed, a hush fell upon the entire caravan as they squeezed out of the mountain pass and came upon the sweeping view of the prehistoric trees that dominated the valley.

Ixchel stopped at the ridge crest and gazed out upon this magical place.

And it _was_ magic. She could feel it in the very air, as she never had before. The Veil was exceptionally thin here, and Spirits pressed close all around. She immediately understood why she had found so many rifts upon her first excursion to the Basin—and why it seemed that demons were drawn to her like a lightning rod through them. As a younger woman, she had learned of Fear and Despair by the time she reached Stone Bear Hold. Adamant had taught them to her, and the Deep Roads, and thus her trip to the Basin, meant to be a getaway, a more amicable search for history and mystery, had become a nightmare of its own.

Ixchel focused on the Anchor and searched for the familiar hum of nearby rifts. Of course, there were many. And she suspected even more would open soon.

She let loose a heavy sigh and cast her attention in the direction she knew Solas and Cole and Anders to be camped. With her left hand extended, she focused on that intangible, unknown connection between her soul and that of her lover. It took more time and effort than she almost could bear, but at last, she sensed it—the faintest pull in that direction.

Her heart was in her throat as she lowered the Anchor and pulled at Eldhru’s reigns. More than anything, she wished to mount her swift hart and fly to her lover’s side. She knew Solas likely needed some comfort; how much guilt had worn away how much of his resolve in the past week? She knew she wanted to hear all about how he spent their time apart. She knew that she needed his arms around her. She wanted—oh, the irony—she wanted a reminder that he was _real_.

Even after spending the night speaking to Dorian, the world had not regained its usual luster. Food still tasted like dust in her mouth, and dread still sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach. She did not know if a reunion would change that. But it _should_.

And if it did not?

The grief of that thought alone was almost tangible beneath the fog that filled her mind. At least, even if her mood did not rise, perhaps the fear within her would ease. He would be right there. She would be able to look in his eyes and say, “I trust you,” and try to believe it.

But first, she needed to make sure her caravan reached the Inquisition’s forward camp safely. She did not want to drag their more vulnerable healers and scholars through the rainforest and into a trap from the Jaws.

So she led her people down into the Basin and skirted close to the lake, while her lover’s magic faded further and further into the west.

-:-:-:-:-

“These are _heavy_ fortifications,” Barris said in shock. “What could they possibly be defending against?"

“It’s the Avvar,” Ixchel said. “They climb.”

She saluted her archers guarding the edge of camp, and entered the base. Most of her party scattered to begin claiming space in the outpost; every part of her Inquisition was a well-oiled apparatus, with everyone knowing their duties and how they could contribute. The healers went to the injured and the supply depot to provide relief and restock, while Barris went to get reports from some of the scouts. Vivienne and Dorian began to offload the eluvian somewhat off to the side, Fiona on the look out.

Amund went to meditate by the fire and commune with the local spirits of the Basin; Ixchel watched him for a moment, but she did not see the ‘gods’ appear as she had once seen when they communed with the augur of Stone-Bear Hold. She felt the spirits flit closer to her Sky Watcher, but they did not cross the Veil. Perhaps they did not need to, to speak with him.

“Let us find Harding at once,” Cassandra murmured. Ixchel nodded, and they went in search of Lace. They found her leading the professor out of his cabin to greet them.

It upset Ixchel further to realize that even the sight of her beloved Lace did nothing to raise her flagging mood. But nevertheless, Ixchel put a smile on her face and extended her hand to greet her friend. “Good to see you, Harding! How’s your mother doing?”

Lace’s face darkened, though she clasped Ixchel’s proffered hand tight. “She’s clamoring to move to Skyhold with my father. It’s not that I don’t trust you, or our soldiers, but after Haven… I know Corypheus isn’t above attacking at home.”

Ixchel nodded. “I understand. Maybe she just wishes you’d write more. I’m sure she’d love to hear more about your trips to such exotic locales.” She gestured around at the massive primeval flora all around them, and a little humor reentered Lace’s face.

“Yeah. And the crazy legends we uncover. Speaking of which, allow me to introduce professor Bram Kenric.”

The scholar had hovered behind her shoulder, polite but also _terribly_ eager, while Ixchel and Lace caught up. His face broke into a wide smile as he was addressed.

“He’s the one who contacted us ages ago when we were first thinking of setting up an operation out here.”

Kenric bowed low to her. “Your Worship, it is an _honor_. The scholarly community is falling all over itself for every revelation you’re uncovering about the ancient Imperium, early Orlais—and the Dales, of course!”

Ixchel gestured quickly for him to pick himself back up. “I’m glad that my findings are being studied and not hidden away,” she said. “I would hope, however, that scholars such as yourself are also paying attention to the fact that half of these revelations were in plain sight. The history of certain communities has been _known_ but ignored or misinterpreted for ages.”

The professor’s lips fell into a grim line. “Ah, yes. You may be happy to know of the growing movement to separate Chantry propaganda from history curriculums, especially regarding the war of the Dales, ” he said. “That’s partly why I’m here, actually.”

It didn’t take much for his somber attitude to melt back into boyish excitement. “While on sabbatical in Val Royeaux, I found something _incredible_. After eight-hundred years, we may be able to determine the final resting place of the last Inquisitor! At last, we might settle the argument of whether there was a mage in charge of the Seekers of Truth or not—an argument that lies at the heart of Mage-Templar relations!”

“The texts say that Inquisitor Ameridan was a dragon hunter who vanished on his last expedition,” Cassandra said.

“I see you’ve read Letrec’s _Precursors to the Chantry!”_ Kenric said excitedly. “He hunted dragons, yes, but demons too, and dangerous apostates in a time before Templars even existed. Letrec says that Inquisitor Ameridan stepped down shortly before the Nevarran Accord brought the Seekers of Truth into the Chantry. And to have you here, Seeker—why I’m sure your insights will be _invaluable!”_

Cassandra glanced at Ixchel, who bit back a small smile. “I actually traveled this area as a young girl and uncovered some traces of Ameridan’s movements in the area,” she admitted. As the professor’s eyes widened, she added, quickly, “I didn’t realize their significance until I joined the modern Inquisition. Perhaps it is fitting now that we return to shed light on the Inquisitor of ages past.”

“We must discuss your findings—whatever you remember—”

Lace cleared her throat. “Actually, I’m afraid there is an immediate threat to this expedition, Inquisitor. Hostile Avvar to the west, calling themselves ‘the Jaws of Hakkon.’ There’s a friendly hold to the east, but these Jaws… They’ve attacked anyone—Inquisition agents, or unarmed researchers—who get close. We’ve sent soldiers, but the Hakkonites know the Basin better than we do, have better camouflage… They’re merciless.” She gave Bram an apologetic look. “If you hadn’t arrived, I’d say this expedition was doomed.”

Ixchel saluted her with a fist pulled to her chest. “Pull our people back and tell them to stay close to the shoreline—but watch out for the troll. We’ll see if we can ally with Stone-Bear Hold and secure some safer routes, but for now, I don’t want anyone trying to push forward into the Basin.”

“Stone-Bear—you really _have_ been here before.” Lace raised her eyebrows. “Do you think anyone will recognize you?”

Ixchel laughed. “A lot has changed about my face since then,” she said dryly. Lace chuckled. “Professor, it was a pleasure to meet you. I’ll make sure your trip out here wasn’t for naught.”

She shook hands with the professor, then went over to the cabin that served as the command center of the camp. Plenty of correspondence had arrived for her during the trek from Skyhold. Cassandra helped her sort through the parcels, scrolls, and notes in search of any news from Wycome.

“Here.” The Seeker handed her a series of notes—they were each shorter than the last as Cullen tracked the daily movements of their spare eluvian. But each warmed Ixchel just a little further.

Cass put her hand on Ixchel’s shoulder. "Good news?"

“On schedule,” Ixchel sighed. “That’s the best we could hope for.”

“Good.” Cass gave her a squeeze. “Then let us keep up on our end.”

"Give everyone have a chance to get dry and gather themselves. Tell Barris, Fiona, Vivienne, Dorian, and Amund, that we’ll be headed out on foot soon,” Ixchel said. “We’ll need lyrium—ask Amund how much.” She ran a hand through her sopping wet hair and sighed. “You know how Amund can channel Korth’s might? That’s what the Hakkonites do. But it’s all ice. So bring the warm things I told you to pack.”

Cassandra’s lip curled. “Delightful.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Ixchel muttered. “You thought the _Fens_ was full of gurguts?"

-:-:-:-:-

Amund found Ixchel just before the party was ready to leave. He smelled strongly of smoke laced with herbs, and magic seeped off of him into the air, so thick she could taste it.

“The gods will carry our story to the hold,” he said. “They saw your mark from afar, but they did not know what it portended. Our intentions are true, and the augur of the hold will know it before we even arrive.”

“I thank them,” Ixchel said. “And I thank you.”

“You will do them great favor by repairing the skies,” he suggested. “There is an island in the lake where some of their kind have become trapped. They warn the hold and the other gods to stay away, but they sense that you have power to free them to the Lady.”

Ixchel nodded; that was as she suspected. “It’s the Lady’s Rest,” she told him. “We will make sure to bring peace there. First, though, we’ll need a boat. And for that, we will need guest welcome.”

“To the hold, then,” Amund proclaimed.

They gathered their companions and left the fortified Inquisition camp. Amund trudged alongside Ixchel at the front of their party, his hammer held at the ready. Cassandra and Vivienne followed them, and they were backed up by the phalanx of Fiona, Ser Barris, and Dorian. They kept a rigid formation, prepared to throw a barrier across one another or lay down a defensive mine in any direction, at the slightest prompt. Ixchel was glad of Ser Barris’s company; after their early discussions with Amund, Barris had guessed that as a Templar he would be able to nullify at least some of the elemental magic that Avvar mages could imbue into their weapons. If there was one thing here in the Basin that Ixchel desperately wanted to avoid, it was getting hit by an icy Hakkonite weapon.

Frost bite was the same as a burn, in theory—but in practice, it could be much, much more difficult to treat. Of course, she had found that out the hard way.

“Do you feel it?” he had asked, nearly as soon as they left the camp.

“Yes,” Ixchel said under her breath, before he had even told her _what_ to feel.

Silence fell over their group swiftly thereafter, for it seemed that they _all_ felt it: the entire rainforest was holding its breath. Waiting.

They hugged the shoreline but moved slowly, warily, to avoid both Hakkonites and the local fauna. In the distance, Ixchel saw flashes of ice magic that she knew were signs of the troll who lived in the marshes. She looked northward and saw the outline of the Stone-Bear Hold’s fishing outpost and docks—this time, not shrouded in ice as it had been when Ixchel had seen it last, in the aftermath of her battle with Hakkon.

She heard a loud jeer, followed by the roar of several angry voices.

“What’s this? Are the fishers of Stone-Bear Hold too rude to share a meal with friends?”

Ixchel drew up short as the fishermen replied with taunts of their own. “Can the Jaws of Hakkon not catch their own fish? Or are those jaws only good for flapping?”

Amund chuckled. “Ah. The opening blows of a fight!”

“You don’t think you could break it up, Sky Watcher?” Cassandra asked.

Amund hefted his hammer in two-hands; fire coursed along the carvings in its head. “It would not earn us the favor of the fishermen,” he said. “You can hear it in their voice—they’re tired of fish blood. Give them the blood of the Hakkonites.”

Ixchel didn’t need to be told twice. She hurried to keep step with Amund’s much longer legs, eventually surpassing him to stride out around the corner of the fisher’s hut. As she caught sight of the confrontation, she sucked in a deep breath to holler:

“Why are you clamoring for fish when there’s wyvern meat to be had?”

The source of the argument—a bare-chested fisherman armed with a harpoon, and a tall Hakkonite woman painted in flaking white and black—turned to face Ixchel, and their followers turned in kind. There were three on the Stone-Bear side, and five Hakkonites. Only one of the fishermen was armed, though Ixchel knew that wouldn’t stop them from joining in the fight to follow.

With their attention focused on her, she spread her arms wide. “Do you think Hakkon will favor you for dishonoring Stone-Bear hold in this way? Or will he favor you for bloodying your blades on the hunt to provide for your people?” She sneered at the Hakkonites, making sure to twist the scars of her face as she did. “Go seek a more glorious meal, _hrafnasueltir!”_

A stunned silence fell across all three factions—the Inquisition, the Stone-Bears, and the Hakkonites—as this tiny Dalish woman goaded the Avvar war band with such familiarity. Ixchel narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth, and the Hakkonites began to tighten their grips on their weapons—

“By Korth’s stony arse,” Amund muttered under his breath. “That was good.”

“Let it be _her_ blood that bathes the blades of the Jaws of Hakkon!” the leader cried, and the Hakkonites charged.

Amund’s barrier settled over her like cool fog rolling down a mountain. She sucked in a deep breath of the cold, sharp air, and activated her chromatic great sword.

“Death to the lowlanders!”

“Glory to Hakkon!”

With a Templar, a Seeker, and a fire mage, the small band of Hakkonites stood no chance. Amund and Ixchel had warned their companions that it was unlikely that the Hakkonites would ever flee or surrender in battle, and that proved to be the case. Once Dorian laid down a fire mine, the battle immediately tilted in the Inquisition’s favor—and the Hakkonites knew it. But they only crowed for lowlander blood all the louder in the face of their defeat.

Ixchel stepped away from the last smoldering body and approached Arvid—she recognized him now that she was closer. Not that she could greet him so familiarly.

 _“Mikill Hakkon,_ ” he said. “Well fought, lowlander. The fish will feed on fool’s heart-wine this night. We have no quarrel, your people and mine.”

Ixchel nodded, deactivating the chromatic great sword. Arvid’s eyes followed the hilt of it as she hooked it to her belt. “Peace between us,” she agreed. “The people I lead have come to learn the ways of your hold.”

Arvid was obviously perplexed by that. His wary gaze floated over her head at her entourage and settled on Amund last. Perhaps it was easier to believe her words, knowing that they had Avvar among them. “I am Arvid Rolfsen. These are Brynja and Hask.”

Brynja and Hask were lithe warrior types with blond hair shorn close to the skull on the sides, but braided and knotted long atop their heads. If Ixchel remembered correctly, they were siblings—though their mother’s name, she couldn’t recall. One of them she knew was a mage, but she also couldn’t remember which one. “Blessed day,” Ixchel told them.

Brynja cocked her head to the side and stared at her like she had two heads. Hask’s jaw just fell open.

“I am Amund, Sky Watcher of Edvarr Hold,” her companion rumbled. “The lowlanders indeed have come to learn. The little one has been touched by the Lady to mend the tears in the skies, and the lowlanders believe that this may require them to speak to the gods as Avvar do.”

Thus prompted, Ixchel raised her left hand, where the Anchor sparkled even through her gauntlet.

Arvid’s brow immediately darkened. “There are many tears here. The augur thought the Hakkonites and their fool’s quest had caused them. Is that why they are enemies of yours?”

Ixchel shook her head. “They did not cause these tears. The one who did is a Rot monster who wants to tear down the sky entirely, to walk in the land of dreams and enslave the gods and mortals alike.” She crossed her arms then. “We believe that he heard the tale of Hakkon, and now he might want to enslave him as a dragon to his will, much the same as the Jaws. That is why they are both my enemies.”

The Stone-Bears looked at each other. “…They both seek Hakkon? _Here?”_

“Yes,” Ixchel said. “The god must be freed and given a chance at rebirth before anyone would enslave him. I would tell your augur and your thane of the danger at once.”

“Aye,” Arvid said with a frown. “Brynja—take the lowlanders to the hold and tell them of the Jaws’ provocations. We will hold the docks in the meantime.”

“Do you fear a raid, Arvid?” Brynja asked.

The broad-shouldered fisherman scoffed. “A raid? Were it but a raid. No, these Jaws’ foolishness is greater than we thought. The hold must be prepared for retribution of another sort.”

“Be safe then,” Brynja said. “Hask. _Behave_. Don’t think the Jaws will be willing to settle their troubles with the climb like Parve.”

Hask rolled their eyes. “We’ll be as safe as the Jaws wish,” they replied. Brynja rolled her eyes right back.

“Come, lowlanders,” she said. “While the way is clear.”


	133. Guest-Welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/6/21
> 
> Double update!!
> 
> I have to recommend "The Saga of the Avvar-Daughter" by @Ammocharis! I found it via their post on the DA Fanfic server and I'm so glad for it. Go check out Vatna's story as she becomes an Avvar Inquisitor!

“You have learned well of your teacher,” Amund told Brynja as they walked, and Ixchel immediately understood that it was Brynja who was the mage among the siblings. “They must be very wise, to have imparted such patience to you in dealing with your kin.”

Brynja laughed. “Patience is little use dealing with Hask,” she said merrily. “But I could’ve turned out like them, if Thora hadn’t bid me think on my words before I speak them!”

Cassandra watched the exchange with wide-eyes; she stared at Brynja’s back so intently, Ixchel wondered if she were trying to find some sign that Brynja was an abomination just from the way the girl walked. Barris, too, had looked sharply away from the coastline and focused on the young mage.

Fiona—who had changed out of her typical Circle robes into something with far more practical trousers—still looked out at the water. “Inquisitor,” she said quietly. “There is a disturbance out there… I can feel it in the Veil.”

“I must agree,” Vivienne said in a clipped voice. It was the first thing she had said in nearly a full day, and Ixchel understood it to be an olive branch of sorts. She wondered if Fiona understood that as well.

“But it doesn’t quite feel like a rift,” Dorian mused. “At least, none of the ones we came across. It feels…” He snapped his fingers. “It feels like those Still Ruins!”

Ixchel considered that, then gave him a small shake of the head. His smirk plummeted into a pout; he had been trying to surreptitiously ascertain whether he had guessed correctly.

Brynja turned and began walking backwards. If she was surprised to find such intense attention upon her, she didn’t reveal it. “Out on the water?” she asked. “That would be the Lady’s Rest you feel. The gods warn us not to go out there.”

“One of their kind is hurt there,” Amund said. “The Herald will be able to guide it into the Dreaming.”

Brynja met Ixchel’s eyes, and for a split-second, Ixchel saw the Spirit within the girl as her eyes flashed lyrium-blue.

“Oh,” Brynja said softly.

Ixchel nodded.

The girl’s gaze then moved on to Cassandra, then Barris. “My teacher knows your kind,” she said. “You push back the Lady’s Veil. How?”

Barris hesitated. As did Cassandra.

“You want to ask questions. So, a question for question is our way, strangers,” Brynja said.

Barris still seemed uneasy about revealing the secrets of his order to the Avvar girl, but Cassandra took the plunge. “It is not fully understood, but it is sometimes possible for non-mages to ingest lyrium and develop our abilities.”

"You drink lyrium?" Brynja grinned. “Doesn’t it drive you mad?”

“There is a dosage,” Cassandra allowed. “Certain additives…”

“And your lyrium-drinkers fight the mages of Tevinter?” Brynja asked. “An army of anti-magic to battle the Imperium?”

Dorian snorted. “That would make far too much sense,” he said.

“A question for a question,” Amund said placidly. “Give them their turn, girl.”

Brynja nodded, still walking backward without even a single misplaced step. Barris looked to Cassandra.

“Your…teacher. It is within you, and can speak to you?” the Seeker asked.

“Aye. So why do you have anti-magic, if not for war?”

“Mages are prone to corruption,” Cassandra said, tensing somewhat. “When spirits enter them, they often become abominations.”

Brynja tilted her head again. “What would cause so much fear in so many people?” she asked. “That’s what calls the twisted ones to a mortal, isn’t it?”

Cassandra was at a loss for words, and Barris could only look away, guiltily, as the girl looked to him for explanation.

Amund said something in Avvar, and Brynja turned around to walk, facing forward, again. When she looked back at them over her shoulder, she was clearly trying to hide that she was upset. She looked past Cassandra at Dorian, Vivienne, and Fiona. “Are you afraid? Of _Thora?”_ she asked. “Our augur is no fool. We keep the bad spirits at bay, or spot them in those who draw them. It is _rare!_ ”

“Few outside the Avvar know how to draw on spirits without corrupting them in the process,” Ixchel explained. “They do not know better.”

“How? How can you pull—”

Brynja cut herself off, then tilted her head again. Ixchel guessed that when the girl did that, she was listening to her spirit teacher within her. Her shoulders tensed. “So whenever _any_ lowlander calls to a god, they twist them?!” she exclaimed. “And you say you want Hakkon—why, to do the same?”

“Do not fear,” Amund said, to everyone around.

 _“I_ do not,” Brynja said angrily. “The gods do.”

Ixchel planted herself in the middle of the path. “Brynja, Thora,” she said, as her party drew to a halt.

The girl turned to face her quickly. Her eyes shone with tears at the revelation that had been given to her.

“I’ll swear to you now, and to any gods listening, that these people—this specific group of lowlanders—are not unkind. They are people who bleed for others when they see someone hurting. They are protectors. I’m here to show them that there are some things they don’t need to defend against with violence.”

Brynja bit her lip.

“You have my word.”

“Wind lift your oaths to the Lady of the Skies,” the girl said. “But I _will_ warn my hold.”

“Fair enough,” Ixchel said. “You are not wrong for your concern.”

As Brynja turned and plowed on, now silent, Amund offered Cassandra a reassuring smile. The Seeker was staring at the ground, however, and frowning pensively; she did not see.

“I suppose question time is over,” Dorian mused.

Ixchel sighed a little and continued walking, now in the center of the pack.

“These…” Vivienne drew a short breath, as though she could not get herself to say _spirits_ or _gods_ instead of demons. “…teachers… They depart willingly, and do so often enough that such things are not even feared?”

“Yes,” Ixchel said.

“I wonder what manner of creature it is,” Vivienne said after a moment.

“The way we name Spirits and Demons is a little bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Ixchel said. “Thora is just _Thora_ , probably. Thora seems patient. Gentle. Perhaps it is Compassion or Love or Faith or Loyalty. Or something of all of those, or something so ancient that its name has been forgotten except for that which it calls itself.”

She tried not to see how Brynja nodded along, despite her turned back. Ixchel instead looked at her mages. “I think we’re going to find, in places where the Chantry and its wars haven’t touched, there are a lot of things older than anything we understand. This place is full of Tevinter ruins, for example. And some of these spirits have invaluable experience to share.”

“But the rifts,” Vivienne said. “Surely there will be demons about.”

“Wishing for something simple, Madame de Fer?” Fiona asked glibly.

The corner of Vivienne’s lips curled upward slightly in what might have been mistaken as an amused smirk. Ixchel was not fooled.

“It might seem simple enough, to have a door open to the Fade—a spirit that crosses through so easily should be able to cross back if it wanted, right?” Ixchel pressed. “But they can’t see, can’t hear. It hurts too much here. They’re afraid, too. And then they are shaped by the waking world, and they get stuck.”

“It’s probably about as harrowing as when we fell into the Fade at Adamant,” Dorian suggested. “The Black City seemed _right_ _there_ , didn’t it, Ixchel? And yet it was so very far.”

Ixchel grimaced. “That’s probably apt,” she agreed.

“Did Dagna ever find out what happened to your armor, Seeker?” Dorian called ahead.

Cassandra grunted. “She says the material has been shaped into something new at the…base level. I did not understand anything else she said, except that she might be able to make stronger armor from such things in the future.”

“I don’t know if I could ever be comfortable wearing something I knew came from such a place,” Barris muttered.

“I have to agree,” Cassandra said. “It set my teeth on edge. Like it were always vibrating. I was glad to take it off for the Arcanist.”

“Oh-ho,” Dorian crowed.

Cassandra gave him a dirty look before he could come up with anything else vulgar to say.

-:-:-:-:-

The hold had not been disturbed either by the Hakkonites, or by news of the Inquisition and its intentions, when they arrived. A high wind threw Ixchel’s hair this way and that as she walked through the gates, and she raised a hand to protect the Ardent Blossoms. She was afraid she might lose them at any moment.

They received plenty of odd looks as Brynja led them to the Thane’s throne. Several of the clansmen uttered short greetings to Amund, and a few addressed Brynja and Thora to ask if they had things handled, but no one addressed the lowlanders—nor did they try to stop them as they progressed.

Svarah awaited them, with Espen, the hold’s augur, at her side. To Ixchel’s relief, Storvacker flanked the thane on her other side.

“So, she arrives,” announced Espen. “Don’t throng!”

The warning was necessary, for suddenly—suddenly the whole chamber was packed as though with many bodies. But they were not bodies. Spirits pressed in around Ixchel at every point, touching along her skin, prodding her dulled senses. She could feel their concern, as well as their welcome. There were more of the Stone-Bear gods gathered here than last time, she noted.

They dispersed when a barrier fell over her head. She couldn’t quite tell whose it was. But to be so suddenly disconnected from the embodiments of such pure emotions was staggering.

“Behold, worthy ones,” Espen said, “the woman who blazes like fire and mends the air!”

The spirits crowded at the back of the room and manifested behind Svarah’s throne. But they were not hiding. Ixchel knew that this, too, was a sign of welcome: a unified front.

“I am Espen, the augur of Stone-Bear Hold,” Espen said in his rich, low voice. “I greet you.”

Ixchel clasped her hand to her chest, just as she had been taught long ago. “Peace to you,” she replied. Behind her, she heard Cassandra mumble the same thing. Barris, Dorian, Vivienne, and Fiona all stumbled to follow with the greeting.

Ixchel would never tell them, but she knew Espen well enough to see that the show definitely amused him.

Thane Sun-Hair did not rise from her slouch upon her throne. Ixchel recognized the cold caution in the woman’s face. “I am Svarah Sun-Hair, Thane of Stone-Bear Hold. You and your people have come far from the safety of the lowlands. State your business.”

“Duty brought me, and hope,” Ixchel replied. “My name is Ixchel. The sundered sky has opened many wounds in the lowlands, among both men and the gods.” She held up the Anchor. “With the help of your hold, we might heal many of them.”

Svarah looked first to the augur at her side, who kept his gaze fixed on Ixchel behind his mask and paint. Then, she looked at Storvacker, who chuffed low in her chest. Svarah turned her attention to Amund next. “You too have traveled far,” she said. “Sky Watcher, what fate has met your hold that you would join the lowland Inquisition?”

“I am Amund, Sky Watcher of Edvarr Hold. They have traveled far to the north, to Tevinter, to battle their mage-empire,” he replied. “I followed the Lady to the Inquisition’s Skyhold. Now, it seems perhaps that it was Hakkon was calling to me all along!”

Espen smirked a little. The paint on his face crumbled along his mustache. “You will find no friends among the Jaws of Hakkon,” he said gravely.

“I seek none,” Amund proclaimed. “The little one has noble goals: to heal the skies, and to free the Wintersbreath from his prison. If the Jaws stand in the way, more fools are they.”

“Well said,” Espen said. The augur nodded in Ixchel’s direction. “The gods have spoken of your deeds. They tell me strange things—that you muddied time’s waters, where the cliffs are red…and returned again. That you walked in the Land of Dreams twice over.”

Ixchel nodded silently.

“The gods believe the lowlanders’ claims,” he said. “They call her ‘the Brave Guide,’ and ‘the Herald.’”

Svarah nodded shortly, but before she could speak—and indeed, before Ixchel could even process the fact that even these remote spirits called her _rogasha'ghi'lan—_ Espen addressed Ixchel again. “The gods have a message for you. Will you hear it?”

“Gladly, Sky Watcher.”

_“‘The needs of the hold are different than what you know. But you are also different. Make offerings. Prove your strength. Mend the skies. Then they will learn, and we will teach.'”_

“But Espen!” Brynja suddenly burst out from where she had stood off to the side, waiting to be addressed or dismissed. “Do you know of the lowlander’s ways? _Truly?_ We would allow them to speak with our gods and the gods of our ancestors?! What if harm comes to them? What if they are corrupted?”

Svarah tightened her fist. “Peace, Brynja,” she said. “We will treat them no different than the Hakkonites. No weapons or staves in the hold. No god-binding. No menacing Storvacker.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “Though I doubt they would be so foolish.”

Storvacker snorted.

Espen nodded along with the thane. “Brynja, come with me and we will speak to the gods of this matter. Thora may not have known of the lowlanders and their ways, but our ancestors traveled far, traded with many. The gods will speak of what they have seen, and perhaps that will settle you and your mentor.”

Brynja crossed her arms. “I have another message, from Arvid,” she said, looking down at the ground. “The Hakkonites were goading us to give them fish, with nothing in return. But they were itching for a fight, Svarah. I’m afraid for our kin who’ve gone out hunting, if the Jaws are looking to spill _anyone’s_ blood to satisfy Hakkon!”

The thane’s brow furrowed beneath her hood. “We will gather tonight to discuss the issue,” she said. “Go with the augur, and present your findings to the hold around my fire.”

Brynja nodded shortly. Without further ado, Espen stepped forward; the visitors parted ways and allowed him, and Brynja, to depart.

The spirits gathered behind Svarah’s throne also vanished, back across the Veil.

Svarah looked back at Ixchel. “You have guest-welcome, Ixchel, with your Inquisition. But I cannot invite you to stay without provoking an attack from the Jaws of Hakkon. Whatever our gods say, the hold will obey—but they will fight harder if they were more certain of who you are and what you fight for.”

“Thank you, Thane Sun-Hair,” Ixchel said. “I have stayed with Avvar holds before, but my companions are unfamiliar with your traditions. I would like to speak to the Master of the Hunt, and the Master of the Arena, as well as to the augur and your gods, so that my friends can learn the paths you walk.”

Svarah nodded. “I heard what the gods told you, but now I see that you _understood_.” She eyed Ixchel carefully. “We are not the largest hold, but our warriors are strong and our singers are pretty—and we honor our traditions to the satisfaction of the Lady. But I ask that you do not come to the meeting of the hold tonight. Let us speak amongst ourselves, unreserved. But as the sun rises tomorrow, know that you may walk among us freely.”

“Thank you,” Ixchel said again. “I must offer you one other warning, though: I’m concerned that Tevinter mages might also be searching for Hakkon’s cage.” She gestured at Storvacker. “I know the strength of Hold Beasts, but they are led by a darkspawn who rivals even the mad Old Gods of the Blight.”

The mighty bear growled.

Behind Ixchel, Dorian made a frightened noise and drew back.

Svanah grinned. “Thank you for the warning. We will make sure to make note if Storvacker does not return from her home in a timely fashion.”

Ixchel nodded. “We will be venturing through the Basin and back, to keep an eye out for their movements, and I’ll gladly alert you of anything we encounter. But I am glad to have made myself known to you, Svanah.”

“Time will tell if the feeling is mutual,” Svanah replied.

-:-:-:-:-

Ixchel did not go straight to either the Master of the Hunt or the Master of the Arena, or even to the augur. Instead, she led her companions north of the hold to a rocky cliff that overlooked the lake. She could already feel the whirlwind of questions and ignorant comments stirring up behind her, and she wanted to give them a chance to be vented—and for the Stone-Bears to have a chance to settle as well.

Amund followed along, apparently quite pleased. “Well done, lowlanders,” he said cheerfully.

“That was…good, yes?” Dorian asked. “Are you certain?”

“What, Master Pavus, do you require red carpets to be unfurled for you to feel welcome?” Fiona teased from the corner of her mouth.

“Well, food, too, at the very least,” he said with a twitch of his mustache.

“I suppose it would be a lot of ram,” Vivienne mused, looking out at the water.

“Ram isn’t so bad,” Barris said. “But was it a _possessed_ ram?”

Ixchel’s jaw clenched, but before she could speak, Cassandra leaped in. “They believe their…their teachers, the spirits, to die if they are killed in a mortal body. You should be careful. What you said might be a grave insult.”

She glanced at Amund cautiously, but he gave no indication that he had even heard their exchange.

Barris fidgeted with the hilt of his sword. “You are right, Seeker.”

“Even in the oldest codices, the Canticle of Andraste spoke of her as a spear-maiden of the Alamarri,” Cassandra continued. “This is the world she knew. Perhaps it is worth listening for the Chant as it is reflected in the world we see, here.”

Amund laid a hand on Ixchel’s shoulder and pulled her a few feet away to converse. He could be very soft-spoken, despite his size, when he lowered his voice—as he did now. “Do not be so quick to correct them,” he said. “It speaks to your honor, certainly. But if you want them to learn, let them teach themselves. That is how the gods teach our young ones, too. Even when they are within them—they do not control. As the young ones grow older, the gods speak to them less and less. They must practice on their own.”

She looked back at her companions; Fiona had chimed in with Barris and Cassandra to discuss the Chant. Dorian and Vivienne were standing on the cliff’s edge, both with their arms crossed as they looked out at the horizon. Dorian said something that was whipped away on the wind, and Vivienne replied with her eyes closed.

Dorian looked over at Ixchel then and met her gaze.

She offered him a small smile, and he returned it apologetically.

They were trying.

Ixchel let loose a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, as though she had received some permission from Amund to relax. “Thanks for your counsel, Amund,” she said.

He patted her shoulder again. “What now, Herald?”


End file.
